What We Can Do
by lulusgardenfli
Summary: It's Summer 1970 and Pony would do anything to save his family
1. Chapter 1

_**Hi, this part one of a short 5 chapter story, the narration is Pony in 1978 reflecting on the summer of 1970**_

* * *

I am sitting on a bar stool, my sneakers tucked inside the metal footrest. I rip the wrapper off and aim my straw upwards above the bubbling Coke like it's a javelin and aim straight for the mirror.

Not realizing that Sally's behind is also in front of me.

As she stands up with a box of coasters, my pinched fingers, my angled straw, my red face and our eyes meet in the mirror.

"Aren't you a little bit old to be blowing spitballs at people?" I'm too embarrassed to notice her smile or to think of a good response. Besides, my mind is on other things.

"No, ma'am, I wasn't…" And suddenly I was thirteen again, sitting at Ray's blowing straws and rude comments at waitresses. But now I'm eighteen and a half and Dallas and Johnny aren't with me.

Odin disheveled with long stringy blonde hair, and eyes caved in by black and red rings rescued me. No matter, I was so glad to see him I almost jumped up.

"So I bend down to pick up some coasters, and when I get up I notice your little brother aiming his straw straight at my derriere." Her laugh is ample and jiggles. Perhaps like her _derriere,_ if I had actually looked to aim for it.

"Nah, I didn't…" I stutter off in a feeble explanation.

Soda would have ragged me hard, enjoyed a few seconds of fun at my expense, but instead he just gave her a small smile, "that so?"

"Aww, honey," She puts her hand on mine, "I was just joshin' with ya, lighten up. You take everything so serious." The bolt of truth in her statement at the end has a point and I tried to smile through my embarrassment ( _see_ my smile says: I don't take _EVERYTHING_ so seriously) even while the tips of my ears are still red.

"Didn't think you'd show up," I said honestly to Soda. I may not have always liked receiving the truth, but I could dish it out.

Soda shrugged, no offense taken, "I missed you." It was only because the words came from Soda's mouth that I believed him, his tone was flat with hardly any conviction.

I had missed him too. I went to school in town and lived in the dorms; Darry insisted that I get the full college experience. Even as I pointed out we would have saved money if I just lived at home and commuted to school. Darry worked construction and Soda did whatever he wanted. The three of us shared the same city and lived in three different universes.

"I probably won't be running track next year," Sally poured Soda a beer before he can even ask for one. He moved it towards me, an offering, but beer was never really my thing. Plus, I was still underage and I don't want Sally to get in trouble.

I shake my head and watch the droplets of condensation spill onto the bar. "The coaches want me to switch to javelin and shot put though." I had run track since I was fourteen and it was only when I made a last minute sub on shot-put and managed not only to _not_ humiliate myself but get second place against a three time city champion in a friendly between us and the University of Oklahoma-Tulsa that my coach lit up like Buddha under the Bodhi and thus spoke the holy words: "why, I'll be a pig's fart Curtis, you can _throw_." And that's how the track team was fertilized with another shot put specialist.

As I tell Soda the story, his muscles clenched and his fingers tapping a faint tune on the edge of the glass, stopped tapping. "This don't affect your scholarship, right?"

I knew why he was nervous. Even though it was 1970 and there was real talk about sending our troops home, the draft, the lottery and most of all the body bags were realer.

"I got an academic scholarship, and I'll still be on the team, just not running." Translation: I still have two years of student deferment to avoid Vietnam. I talked to my brother like he's an acquaintance or a cousin I hadn't seen in years, not my best friend.

"I always knew you had one hell of an arm. I'm tellin' you Pony, you really shoulda gone out for football." He lets out a low laugh that shakes the beer inside the glass.

Soda lightens up after another beer and the two of us shoot the breeze, pretending that it's old times again. As he finishes a beer, I finish his sentences and even though everything has changed, we crack jokes and Soda gives me a hard pat on the back and his eyes almost have that old glow, "shit man, I mean it, how are you? _Really_ _how are ya?_ I _missed_ you." And this time, I really do believe him.

I'm a whole lot better than I was a few minutes ago.

He asked me about my girlfriend, asked me how my classes are going and seemed genuinely interested in everything I have to say.

I'm a much better listener than I am a talker, or least I'd much rather listen to people than talk to them, but when it came to my turn to ask Soda how things are going with him, my tongue goes slack.

I should take a moment and explain that Soda was a junkie.

We sat in Arnie's Bar. Arnie's was fourteen years old in 1970 and like most fourteen year old males, having been a member of that strange subspecies myself, Arnie's could be moody, boisterous and absurd, but mostly it was just a local hangout.

Darry had started hanging at Arnie's a few years ago, and when Soda first came in, he was, for about five seconds, "Darrel's little bro," before he made a name for himself. Next to us two men were years ahead on the whole healthy living bandwagon since they kept on talking about melons and cantaloupes. Their laughter was onomatopoetic, " _haw, haw, haw_ " they bellowed to one another as smoke from their Lucky's shrouded the air. Some college kids sat in one of the booths and poured over Yeats and on-tap beer. Between Yeats and the cantaloupe aficionados sat Soda and me.

It might sound crazy meeting an addict at a bar, but Soda never had a problem with drinking and I would have met Soda in a blood sprayed alley if that's where he wanted to meet up. If the mountain won't come to Muhammad then Muhammad will come to the mountain.

Also in 1970 though all of us who knew and loved Soda knew he had a problem, he wasn't at rock bottom yet. The tiny scabs on his chin could easily be written off as adult acne. He wore long sleeve shirts, but Soda was also idiosyncratic when it came to dress, wearing shorts and t-shirts in winter and long sleeve shirts in the summer. This shirt was unbuttoned about halfway down his chest and every now and then he scratched his beard and his chest hair.

Picture it now: the scabs, the beard, the long dirty hair, the open shirt and most of all his tongue piercing; it all gave him an image that he was conscious of and even cultivated: I'm a rebel. I'm dangerous. But he could still pull off a smile back then, could still be charismatic and charming, so now the look said, I'm a rebel, _but I can be tamed._

A good crowd at Arnie's seemed to know him, coming up to him, talking to him. I was used to Soda being the center of attention, he was the dervish and the world skirted around him, followed and spun to his every move. And when he collapsed, it seemed to collapse with him.

"Soda…" he's spinning on the bar stool like he's 5 and not 21. His knees almost crashing into mine and I reach for his arms, to steady him, to steady myself for what I'm about to say. I don't really know what I'm going to say, I want to tell him to stop this, to get help, I wanted to ask him what I could do, a selfish part of me wanted to ask him what _we did_ to him. But again, my tongue is thick and heavy and silent.

But Soda seemed to know exactly what I was trying to say, he almost always did. And he looked me straight into my eyes and his stare was as piercing as any arrow Arjuna ever launched.

"Pony, we can only do what we can do."

* * *

I first saw her through the flick of the flame from my lighter.

Her bellbottoms matched the tawny brown stool, the cuffs flared like yurts around her feet. When she stood up, her keys jingled in her pockets and from the waist down she had the stance of a libidinous reindeer on the prowl.

She sauntered towards us, or at least towards one of us, since even junked out Soda could still reel in the opposite sex without effort. Her perfume foreshadowed every step.

The perfume was followed by a lime green crinkled blouse, a tiny gold chain that swung in one direction and hips the swiveled in the opposite; on her head a peach bandana with a tiny gold bell and curls spiraled tight.

I nudged Soda, _can you believe this?_ But Soda turned slightly towards her, his lips slithered into a smirk.

"Howdy."

I waited. Waited for Soda to tell her politely to get lost and then not so politely if she didn't get the hint. And as I waited his smirk only gained a midnight prowler's edge.

"What's ya name sweet thing?" It took everything not to throw up, I settled on throwing my head back and rolling my eyes deep into my _what the fucks_.

She giggled loud enough to turn heads and my digestive tract. Her voice had the screeching quality of lime green nails on chalkboard.

Her name wasn't Circe or Deborah or Rina Marlowe. It was Lauralee. I'm not sure if she spelled it Lauralee or Laura Lee, but she appeared to be the type who was born Laura Lee and then one day woke up, threw out old shoes, moth covered clothes and the space between the a and the l.

"I've been watching you and you look like the type who could be in for a lil' trouble," she poked his chest.

"What happened to your sweet lip baby?" His bottom lip had a small cut. Her lips clicked with concern and as Soda opened his sweet lip a bit and revealed his tongue piercing, her eyes aroused.

"My, my you're a bad boy," she cooed into his neck.

I felt as if I was watching a train crash.

He leaned into her, his voice condescending, "the baddest."

The baddest train crash.

Her hips moved, her chain stood still, "then you're right up my alley, Cat." My poker face fell and I shook my head and chuckled.

I sighed with relief; clearly this was a bridge too far even for Soda. This woman was pathetic. I don't even mean that in a pejorative way, although I'm aware of how it sounds, but I mean it sincerely, she was pitiful. And she had no idea how sad she sounded. She reminded me of the kid who is convinced she's destined to be the next star, unaware that the only reason she gets the solos is because she is the butt of everyone's cruel jokes.

Soda, his hands wrapped around her waist, her gold chain spilling onto his arm, "and maybe we can get ourselves in some big trouble later on." He eyed the space between his legs, looked up at her for a half second and back down, licking his lips.

 _And Soda was sitting in the front row, cruelly taunting her to continue her wobbled off-key solo as snickers and guffaws rang out like gun shots around them._

I felt bad for her and as annoying as she was, I wanted to give her back some of her dignity. More so I wanted Soda back and right now both her dignity and his soul could only be restored by separating the two of them.

I gripped onto the edge of the bar to steady myself.

This set her off into a fit of giggles that made her seem younger and younger the longer it went on, and if I closed my eyes I'd swear that she was barely 16.

"Am I gonna hear them same sounds tonight when I nibble your ear and…" Soda's eyes and mouth leered down her body; his words and glare becoming dirtier the farther and farther down until he locked into her crotch and stayed there.

I looked away, desperate to find another point of focus but my eyes followed the contours of the room, past the two men having an animated but low volume exchange, _haw, haw, haw_ , past Sally slugging beer to a large group in the corner, and landed right on his mouth opening around her ear. His teeth molded onto her skin.

He whispered something in that ear which caused her eyes to widen with alarm and then the giggles started up again. This time there was an uncomfortable space between each giggle. And if she was my sister and he not my brother, I would have flattened him into the peanut shell floor.

But her moment of being uncomfortable was temporary because in a flash she pressed her flesh into his and tried to make, what I thought was a 'come hither' look, but might have been the effects of blinking square lights or a palsy.

"You're makin' me hot."

I was about to grab a water and hand it to her, anything to stop this.

He leaned over on his stool. "I got plenty of juice for ya baby, now open your mouth and say 'ahhh' I wanna make sure your thermos is big enough."

"Soda," my voice harsh as I tried to pull him back. Neither of us were strangers to crude talk and language and by the standards of late night bull sessions this didn't even hit the frothy Richter scale. But dirty remarks in private were different from saying them in public to a woman you didn't even know.

Not to mention he was sounding like a complete idiot. And he knew he was sounding like an idiot, he didn't care. He was treating her this way on purpose and she seemed to think he was actually flirting with her.

These were the pick-up lines I'd expect from the dumbest Brumly Boy back in the day, not from Soda, who all appearance to the contrary had a sweet charm, especially when it came to women.

But that wasn't the reason for the power drill churning my stomach into a preemptive nausea. They were both adults, both willing and wanting, her hands continued to paw across his chest; her fingernails coiling his chest hair. If their two flesh wanted to become one, who the hell was I to be a prig? And hell, it wasn't like I wasn't above having some fun or having a one night stand.

Then I saw it.

The look on Soda's face. It was cocksure and arrogant, yes, but it was so much worse. He didn't care about this woman that much was clear and hell he probably didn't care about half the girls he banged; but he didn't even want the sex. I could tell that he didn't find her one bit attractive, he probably found her just as sad and pathetic as I did.

But while the old Soda would have told her that he was 'taken' or 'not in the mood, darlin'' the Soda in front of me was a shark sniffing human blood (or cheap perfume) and what she offered with literal bells on was his for the devouring. Not because he wanted it or needed it, but because he could.

And the bar we're in. Look around, the group in the corner, squealing; Soda sniffling, she asked if he has a cold, mud tracked on the floor. I can smell my sweat through Darry's cologne.

We're in a pig pen. And Soda, he can't see her, he can't see her desperation, her insecurity. Her humanity. _His_ humanity. But he looked through her eyes like she's a piece of trash. And he doesn't stop looking. His mouth curl slightly, a small cut of his teeth, feral and edged, breaks through his lips. His eyes darken. The longer he looks the more hate filled his face becomes.

He wasn't Odin. He was the wolf.

But it wasn't her he hates, I know that now. It was himself. Her eyes weren't a window into her soul; it was a mirror into his.

She doesn't notice, or if she does notice, it doesn't bother her. The more contempt in his gaze the more she seemed turned on and I didn't know what to make of her anymore. But I knew what I needed to do.

"Let's go, _now_." I wheezed and grabbed his arm, about to show him how strong my arm really was. But Soda doesn't budge.

Lauralee glared at me with disgust. Taking a good look at her face she was older than I first thought. I'd guess around 38 but she would be the type to still call herself, 'mid-thirties.' She was old enough to be his mother.

I looked at my warped reflection in the glass and conjured up a story for Rina, I mean Lauralee: recent divorcee, husband took the car, she got the daughter. Now she was trying to 'live her best life ever!' She would definitely be one to add an extra exclamation mark. Watched Monday Night Football religiously, still didn't know the different between a tight end and wide receiver, except as a double entendre, " _I'll be your wide receiver tonight."_ She borrowed the bandana from her daughter, the perfume from magazine inserts from the dentist office, her confidence from a bottle of Jack.

"Who are you?" Her voice could freeze an Indian Summer. Jeez. _Well, good, it's not like I wanted her to like me anyways._

"This is my brother," and for a moment it felt as if the spell had been broken and Soda's voice and eyes returned to normal.

"Oh my gosh! You two could be twins!" We could not at that point be mistaken for twins; at that point we hardly still looked like full blooded brothers, but I nodded wordlessly.

Then to me, "you're as cute as your brother, maybe the three of us can get together afterwards, a _ménages à trois_ if you will."

Yes, if I will.

"A mangled twat, what?" Soda snorted into his glass and I'm too curious about where he picked up British slang to feel embarrassed. In fact, I laughed in spite of myself. God knows, I could be an asshole myself sometimes.

She hit her forehead, not hearing or not caring about Soda's rude comment, "I am such a ditz! I forgot to ask you, what's your name Cat?" she gave Soda moonie eyes.

"His name's Dog O' War, ma'am," I said in the best hoe down Ozark accent I could muster. This night was already a sham, might as well turn it into a farce.

 _Both_ Lauralee and Soda gave me a death stare. And two shall become one. Lauralee because I'm sure she didn't like being reminded of her age, and Soda because? Was he actually serious about her?

"I'm sorry, my name's… Mike." My voice is conciliatory as I reached out to shake her hand.

I wasn't about to tell her my name's Ponyboy, she seemed like the type of wit who would wonder if my genitalia could be compared to that of a horse, and given how Soda was behaving I wasn't sure if I could trust him not to whip out his right in the middle of the bar.

Soda's face broke into a sly grin and any peevishness he felt towards me vanished. "Pa…" he started with a grin, but his face darkened and envelopes into itself and even I'm not welcomed into this moment, it's his pain alone.

It's only a split second, only I saw it, because then Soda's face returns to its bloodless charm. "Why don't ya call me anything you like, how's that little girl?" His voice is a pulp fiction come to life.

Who is this man?

"What the fuck, Soda?" but he doesn't hear me.

This drew titillating laughter. Of course after being called 'ma'am' of course she'd love being called 'little girl,' and as long as none of us looked in the mirror we could all play into our delusions: Lauralee wasn't old, I wasn't lost and Soda wasn't a pig.

"I have some…" she pauses, "acid" in my purse if we wanna have some fun. I've never done acid before have you?" Have you? Have you? It wasn't funny at all, but I let out a bitter laugh and clap.

They both ignored me.

"Drugs scare me, there was a lady in Tallahassee who cooked her baby in a stove when she was on LSD," then she paused and her voice lowered a register and became almost normal and without realizing it I leaned towards her, "I read all about it in the newspaper. But I don't think one hit could hurt, do you?"

"I dunno, I don't do drugs," he looked her straight in the eyes. Though she smiled, her breath, her hands, her chest, her hips, her bell, her gold chain and finally her eyes pulled back. For a second this Lauralee who only knew Soda for a few minutes seemed to realize better than anyone who he was.

"Curtis, I've had enough of your bullshitting to last me a lifetime." The voice emerging from the door is harsh, a Russian nesting doll of gravel contained in Bourbon cupped in a throat.

Mary. I had never been so relieved to see her. Soda had a type judging from Mary and from empty threats from Tim Shepard to beat his ass: small, dark hair and fierce.

Soda just stared at her, too worn out to give her a glare. She was from California but came back to Oklahoma with my brother. Now their relationship was over and I really didn't know much about what she was doing with herself, besides shooting up.

Curtis got his ass up and whispered something in Lauralee's ears; he attempted to smile at her. A nice smile too, you could tell it strained him.

Her bell bounced against her forehead, but she still smiled back, especially as Mary shot daggers straight at the two of them.

"I'll see ya later Pone," and Soda pulled out some money from his billfold and placed it on the bar.

"Soda," I stood up but I didn't know what to say.

"I promise Pony, I'll see you later, okay? We got a whole summer together." He gave me a sad smile. _We can only do what we can do._

He tried to reach his hand out to me, but I pulled back. Only our shadows touched.

"Wait, Soda," I called out to him but when he turned to face me, my shoulders only sank in defeat, "I'll see you around."

"Cunt," Mary shouted and both Lauralee and Soda looked at her, there was a small smirk on Soda's face, though it was hidden by his beard and offset by his eyes. Lauralee looked aghast.

"Oh, not you baby, I'm just talkin' about the one inch dick you're gonna be fucking tonight."

Soda just laughed and gave her the middle finger. Not embarrassed at all by her comments.

"No, sweetie that's too big." Then to Lauralee, "stick your lil' pinkie inside of your cooch and you'll get a good idea of what you can look forward to tonight." Then back to Soda who was enjoying seeing her riled up, "fuck you Curtis!"

"That's pretty much what's gonna happen, Mare," and gives her a wink.

"What's her problem?" Lauralee asked as she leaned into Soda. Though I noticed she did take a worried glance downward.

He walked out of Arnie's with his hands around Lauralee, her keys jingled, her perfume remained.

"Did you catch the cantaloupes on that one?" One of the guys next to me asks the other after Lauralee left. Honestly he had a point her um, _cantaloupes_ were quite fruitful.

 _Haw Haw Haw_

There's one more moment in this story that in the years ahead I would return to, endow it perhaps with more meaning than it carried. Before Soda left, before he left with this woman and her cantaloupes, he took a napkin and cleaned the spot of the bar where his drink missed the coaster. He didn't want to make Sally's job more difficult on her than it already was.

Mary took a deep sigh. Unlike Soda, Mary actually looked like a junkie, an emaciated Kali with ribs sticking out. The man who hubba habba about Lauralee looked at Mary with disgust.

"Why does he keep on doing this Ponyboy?" Her lips quivered and her voice shook like a candle about to burn out. My eyes softened. I run my fingers against the sleek dark wood and watch the napkin fibers blister my reflection.

I wish I had an answer for her, but hell if I knew myself. The door opened again and through the mirror I watched the grey night and Lauralee's headlights pull out.

* * *

Lauralee took Soda to her apartment, he washed up in the sink and as the ice cold water hit his face, she was in the bedroom, undressing. When my brother opened the bedroom door, she was lying there, naked, a pink lace teddy next to her.

He unbuttoned another button and looked at her, looked at her anticipation, looked at her excitement, watched as her fingers touched her body. Saw her perfume on the night stand. Saw the candle she lit on the other night stand. Watched her naked body.

"Nah, you ain't really my type," and walked out the door.

* * *

 **A/N: I don't own, and at this point I'm sure S.E. Hinton wouldn't want any claim to these people in this story either.**

 **Mistakes I knew I was making: Arnie's of course is a real bar in Tulsa, but I'm not sure if the University of Tulsa had a track team based on their yearbooks, but in this version they do.**

 **Sorry for asshole Soda.**

 **I do truly appreciate all reviews, reads SO MUCH especially as I VERY unsteadily try to get back into writing. Thank you.**


	2. Chapter 2

D _oing some experimenting with narrative/timelines, all of these sections are narrated in 1970, except the last one which takes place in 1959. Onward..._

* * *

The problem with Cathy Carlson is her smile. Not the polite one she's giving an old man in a rumpled hat and tweed jacket, that smile says no more than competency.

But that grin she gives when she's relaxed. Lucky for me, that side rarely comes out.

"More coffee, Darrel?"

I nod, steadying the mug as she puts the half-empty pot of decaf to the side, and reaches for a fresh pot of scalding black coffee. I try not to notice her long eyelashes, or the way her black hair falls with a curved oomph just past her shoulders.

This mug is the greatest object on earth, because I'm trying to not notice her breasts. Which, objectively speaking, are even greater.

"That's great, thanks."

The ceiling fixture holds a florescent light and a dead bug and I wonder when I became so goddamned obvious.

My mind is a sewer for even entertaining these thoughts. I jam my fists into my pockets. Hell if I don't want to jam my dirty thoughts alongside.

And when she walks away I try my best not to notice that even in a hemline that reaches her knees her legs go on for miles.

I failed.

* * *

"Mind if I sit?" One foot is already off the ground.

"Be my guest," My hand holds out to steady her, but she doesn't need it as she carefully maneuvers onto the seat. Her apron is folded neatly on her lap. There are hardly any stains on it.

Once again my eyes look where they shouldn't.

"You must be beat," I sympathized. On top of being a full time student Cathy worked two jobs. With school out, she's working at Ray's full time and the hospital part time. I see her almost every day, but rarely out of a uniform. I admire her work ethic. She's studying to be a teacher and I think she'll make a good one, if only because I've never met anyone as organized as Cathy Carlson.

She's ready to deny, but she glances down at her feet, her toes resting on top of shoes that probably walk a marathon every day. She says nothing, but her wince and swollen pink toes do all the talking for her.

The cup looks clean, but I do a quick spot clean before pouring her a cup.

She scrunches her nose.

"Not supposed to drink on the job?" My eyebrows furrow and I hope she won't get in trouble.

"No," she starts quickly and her voice lowers, "but wild horses couldn't force me to swallow this down." I get a feeling that none of the food or drinks at Ray's meets her standards.

"Now, how's a wild horse gonna do that, Cathy?" Soda, a huge grin on his face walks up to us, his hands locking on our shoulders.

"Hello, Soda." I try not to notice the way she blushes, or the quick flip of her hand across her hair.

My brother always has that effect on woman. It's one of his more annoying qualities.

"Well," Cathy looks at the rooster shaped wall clock, "I better get back to work, we're allowed to eat as much food here as we want, but God forbid we're a second late." I nod sympathetically, though I'm not sure if I would run this place any different.

Soda quickly wipes his hands on his uniform, makes sure there isn't any excess oil on his fingers, and offers Cathy his hand as she eases off the stool.

She takes it.

* * *

As far as jobs are concerned, greasy food aside, Ray's isn't horrible. There's a minimal amount of spitballs from the teenybopper set and butt pinching from the old perverted set. The former I can take in stride. The latter not so much.

I spot my brother Pete sitting with a few friends in a corner booth, studying the menu, though they always order the same thing.

"Oh, hey Cathy." He attempts to sound cool and I attempt to motion to him to brush off a piece of chewed gum that's stuck to the corner of his lips. I resist the urge to ask if he's riding his bike home or if Momma is picking them up after she finishes with her shopping.

I pretend to listen to their orders, by the corner of my eyes watches Darrel and his brother and how I wish my eyes had antennas. Not that I'm delusional to think they're talking about me. Darrel barely knows I exist.

"Thanks Cathy," My brother hands me back their menus.

As I'm just about to cross out of earshot, I hear Pete's voice, cracking under the weight of puberty, "shut up douche, that's my sister you're talking about!"

Then another voice, "Chill out, all I'm saying is that your sister is one major babe."

I laugh. I've never been described as a 'babe' before and certainly not as a 'major babe.' But to junior high boys any woman who isn't their mother or teacher is probably a babe.

My giggle gives way to a grimace. I think I should go into medicine, because I've discovered bones and muscles I never knew even existed before this job. All of them with a new way of aching with each step.

But this job is almost worth it for one reason only. It gives me the chance to see Darrel Curtis.

Darrel Curtis turns me into somebody I never thought I'd be, needy. I never felt this way dating Bryon or Ponyboy or Terry or anyone else, but Darrel Curtis? _My God_.

He is manhood personified. It's the roped muscles of his arms, the flat stomach, the broad shoulders that block everything out of view. And oh how I want to sink my fingernails into them. Feeling the hardness of his body arch into mine.

But it's more than just his perfect features. Darrel is a good listener, I like talking to him, even if he hardly shares anything personal with me. And I want to know more about him. I want to know everything about him and not just the little nibbles he throws my way. When I was younger the quiet boys bored me, Ponyboy Curtis being a brief exception, but with Darrel his very stoicism draws me.

He is a riddle, wrapped in a mystery, inside an enigma, wrapped in a _very handsome package_.

I know people drool over Sodapop, but Soda's too pretty for me, Pony too. But Darrel is everything a man should be. Except mine.

And why would he be?

I scratch an itch on my cheek, glad that they no longer make me look like a white Louis Armstrong when I smile. Not that it makes a difference. I've seen the women Darrel dates, beautiful blondes with curves that I'll never have.

I roll my eyes, and I don't know if I'm more upset that I don't have all the assets someone like Darrel is surely used to, or because I'm becoming one of those desperate co-eds, primping and preening and driving themselves nuts just to catch a wolfish gaze. Why do we women do this? Why am _I_ doing this?

Men run the world; do we have to let them run our inner thoughts and worries as well?

Then I look down at my granny shoes, my waitress dress and my apron and my moment of feminist solidarity is over. I wish I wore eyeliner today.

 _Oh Lord! I cannot believe I let him see my toes! How mortifying!_

I really wish I had a cigarette.

Wiping down a table covered in crumbs and stains of dubious origin, I look at Darrel and Soda. It looks like Soda is telling a joke because Darrel smiles and lets out a low laugh in that smooth baritone of his.

My knees turn to jelly.

 _Stop it Cathy. Pull yourself together._

What I told Darrel, about being docked pay if we're a second late, isn't true. But I needed to get away, not from Darrel, from Soda.

* * *

" _How's your brother, Cathy?" Soda can't stop itching, but his concern is genuine and I'm tired, up the night before studying for finals and helping break up another head through wall fight between Pete and Chris._

 _His brain is turning into mush because some hood that I once had a puppy crush on pumped him up with LSD._

" _Not bad."_

 _Soda opens his mouth and closes it, and his eyes drop slightly, but his voice is surprisingly steady._

" _He don't look so good Catty-Chatty," and I roll my eyes at the new nickname I'm given. It fits me though, I do tend to talk a lot._

 _My tray goes down with a thud and I take a quick glance to make sure no one noticed. My voice catches between defensiveness and worry. "And why do you say that?" I cross my arms and give him as much as a death stare as the late night shift and a paying customer allows me._

 _He brings his fist up to his jawline and with Art 202 in my head, his pose reminds me of warped version of Rodin's The Thinker come to life. Then he starts to scratch._

" _What, huh, what?" He blinks at me, confused and scratches the scab even harder. I want to tell him to stop, that it's sick what he's doing, but that wouldn't be good customer service._

 _But I can see his brain try to pull something out. "No honey, he was telling me he was seeing the voice of God in his bag of M &Ms. I could talk to him. They shouldn't give that junk to a kid." And there's an edge in his voice before he yawns again. _

" _Soda, I don't want to hear another word," I reprimand in the same tone I use on Jenny and Chris when they tattle on each other._

" _I'm tryin' to help," and he lets out a loud sniffle._

 _"No one wants your help. Just stay away from my brother." My voice is brisk, but I really wish I could deliver a one-two blow with my words the way Evie can, or God help me, Angela Shepard._

 _My stomach clenches and knots against my fear as I walk away. Because I think of the way my little brother used to look at the M &Ms and extol the way the colors came alive. But this? No, Soda's lying. He's a junkie and all junkies are liars. Edwin is getting better. He is. He got accepted into Carleton College in Minnesota. And who the hell was this guy, this junkie, who the hell was he to give advice about my brother? _

_I spin around ready to risk a reprimand from the boss and tell Soda Curtis exactly what I thought of him. But when I turn around Soda is looking at his hand where it touched his chin, it's covered in blood._

 _He raises his blood stained hand like he's in school and his voice is so soft and woebegone I can barely hear him. "Can I please get another napkin, please?"_

* * *

But today Soda Curtis is looking clean and acting decent. I'm still wondering why I let him take my hand? Because I feel guilty for thinking all of those nasty, if true, thoughts about him? Because I want to make Darrel jealous? My Gosh, that's not pathetic.

And Darrel loves his brother. I know that. And that's enough to force me to give Soda a friendly smile when he walks past me.

"See ya, Cathy."

"Soda?"

"Yeah?"

"Take care of yourself." _And stay away from my brother._

"You too darling."

 _What the hell?_ I look down and feel a straw wrapper hit my arm and watch Pete and his co-conspirators laugh like heyenas and slide under the table; chocolate milkshake mustaches covering their upper lips.

* * *

Cathy is working the late night shift again. I don't feel comfortable with her working so late. So I stay until closing and don't leave the parking lot until she's safe in Mr. Carlson's car. But it gives me a chance to know Cathy better.

I've already guzzled down enough coffee to piss a steady stream of black liquid from now until doomsday. Cathy's right, the coffee here isn't anything to write home about.

I'm on my second hamburger when Cathy sighs into an almost empty diner, "I'm sick of diner food, too greasy." I can't help my smirk.

Her eyes open wide, "no offense of course, it's just that I do nothing but live and breathe hamburgers and French fries."

"You'd change your mind if you had a decent hamburger."

"You're saying this hamburger isn't decent?"

"I'm saying that I make a burger that puts this one to shame. We're having some friends over and I'll be grilling some burgers."

"You're inviting me?"

I wasn't.

"Sure, it's not that big of a deal, just my brothers, probably Tw… Keith, maybe Steve and Evie." I try to make it sound as boring as possible. But Cathy squeals.

"Oooooooh, maybe Evie will bring Levi? You know I haven't seen him yet?"

Fuck.

" _Maybe_ the Randles."

I'm still contemplating ways out when Cathy speaks the words that crush all hopes. "I'll bring a potato salad, it's my Momma's recipe."

When a woman mentions her mama's potato salad you know she's not fucking around.

"Sounds great."

She's got balls. I'll give her that.

Speaking of balls, where the hell have mine shriveled off to? I haven't been this jolted by a member of the opposite sex since Linda Green let me reach inside her panties in Junior High.

And why? Cathy's cute and nice, but there will never be anything between us. I prefer my potential girlfriends to be born in the same decade as me. Call me old fashion.

But that stubborn voice that hooks into me like bur reminds that she isn't like most nineteen year olds. Or, if I'm honest, like any girl I've known. And she's turning twenty in a couple months.

Any moment I have of not feeling like a creep is washed away when I look up and see Cathy's face break out into a smile. God knows we got enough problems in my family without me corrupting an innocent nineteen year old girl who when she grins looks like a cross between Gidget and Ann Marie.

* * *

I had nightmares. I don't mean the monsters under the bed type, though I had those as a kid. I don't mean the standing naked in a lecture hall on finals day type though I had that one a few weeks ago. I mean waking up in the middle of the night drenched in sweat and screaming bloody murder.

They started after my parents died. To the curious, to the worried and to the bored who sauntered in earshot, nah, I don't remember a thing.

Soda died.

I never saw him die or even a body; there wasn't a coffin or a cemetery. Only a field straight out of a Texaco calendar: blue sky, green grass, yellow poppies. A doctor once told me I had too much imagination, but the only part of my nightmare that visually stood out plagiarized the same prosaic wall art found between carved initials and 'help wanted' signs in gas stations across the country.

I never knew exactly how he died, but I felt it. Sometimes I would want the dreams, to see if they gave me a way to prevent my nightmare from coming true. But there were no clues and all my searching got us were nights when no one in my house slept a wink. Darry took my nightmares especially hard. And after he rubbed my back and asked me again if I was okay and after I nodded yes he would step outside the doorframe of my bedroom and his shoulders would drop with a weight and responsibility I was too young and grief-stricken to grasp let alone comprehend.

I shared a bed with Soda and the nightmares slowed down and eventually stopped, just his presence alone made a difference. We continued to share a bedroom, but I slept in my own bed.

Then Soda joined the army.

* * *

I wake up to the phone ringing. At 2:00 A.M. But compared to the claw in throat arguments between my brothers, compared to Lauralee and Soda and that shit show, this sonic disturbance is as welcomed as a night curled inside the double covers of a book and a bed. Maybe there's hot cocoa with marshmallows, arranged in a smile. Maybe Tracey is not in Pennsylvania but pulsating underneath, her mouth unlocks inside mine …

"Someone, get that damn phone."

Tracey vaporizes into Altoona, a postcard on my dresser and wishful thinking. The smile melts.

Although his voice is a stretched yawn with the bite of a defanged grizzly; Darry's body slams a declaration and an exclamation mark into his creaky mattress: that _someone_ would not be him.

Half-awake, half-asleep, deflated in my Traceylessness; eyes blink from one darkness to another that slowly evolves into shadows that transforms into shapes until those shapes mutates into the typewriter, the corner of my desk and the unwashed clothes sprawled across the floor.

I reckon the call is for our wizard of Tulsa's ever expansive witching hour. Like any self-respecting magician he's mastered the art of disappearance, and like a kid who's seen too many mismatched rabbits yanked from the same silk hat, favorite brother or not, I had grown sick of it.

The melted smile rekindles into a scowl.

Tonight he's in my bed. He had a nightmare. He won't talk about it. I sleep on my side to make room for him. But he's home and not shooting voodoo curses into his veins. Yet.

A voice cuts through my guilt. "Can one of you knuckleheads answer that, _please_?"

Darry's please locks and loads more threat than you'd expect from someone who uses words like 'knucklehead.' It's our mom in him; the ability to control three boys with an octave change so slight only dogs and sons could hear the shift.

His voice holds its own enchanted quality; without effort it bends his stubborn brother to its will.

Underneath the demand there is an almost _whimsical_ quality to his voice. And now the bear is jazzed up in a beanie and fringe vest, riding a unicycle. Ringing a bell.

I understood, with the three of us home the call is a nuisance, not a threat. And when your brother is ripping himself apart, a nuisance is a luxury, like being able to bitch about dessert served on the _Titanic_.

I still raise a defeated grunt. And a middle finger. It's still two in the morning. I'm still stubborn.

The sheet untangles, Soda lies stretched, stripped, except for his drawers and socks.

It's his exposed arms, it's his dirty socks and the way he'd run through our house, guzzling chocolate milk, _chocolate milk_ , it's when I get up from sleeping on my side and realize: my back is towards him.

Helplessness, grief and guilt yank an angry breath from my nostrils. Pull harder and snots of brain matter will splatter the wall where it might make for a cool work of art.

Standing over Soda, my eyes narrow, my muscles tightened, and my lips curve between the tight smile Darry wore before a rumble, sympathy for the poor motherfuckers who dared take him on; and a grin yanked off the muzzle of a demented, but scrappy Chihuahua named ' _Killer_.'

Soda won't be going out. Whoever wants Soda will have to go through me.

Angry, I feel a peace wash over me, because how easier is it to be angry on Soda's behalf than at him? _Arnie's_ is forgiven and forgotten.

" _Get the…"_

" _DAMN IT I'M COMIN'"_

 _Talk about defeating the whole purpose._

But when I turn to check on him, I trip over _The Brothers Karamazov_ , my fall broken by a soft 'shit' and my tracksuit.

Soda sleeps, oblivious to it all.

* * *

"Good book?" The door propped half open exposes my brother against the wall, headphones on ears, a paper plate of fried ham on rye on his lap and a book in hand. It's how Pony spends most of his time at home, cloistered in his bedroom, occasionally going to the living room to watch _That Girl_ or _Hogan's Heroes_. His sardonic expression comically mismatched against Marlo Thomas's bubbly grin.

I didn't bother knocking and he doesn't bother removing his headphones, but he shrugs, so I take that as an invitation and slide next to him, the wall scrapes against muscles tight from stress.

I'm right, because he rips the sandwich in two, pushes the plate between us, and hands me the untouched part.

"Extra mustard," we watch globs bubble over the bread's ripped edge before pooling onto the plate, staining it a shade of yellow unseen outside nuclear test facilities.

"T.U. Specialty."

"And to think I regretted not going."

His eyebrows shoot up. The truth is I'm farther along than had I spent four years in a stuffy lecture hall sitting next to legacy students who catapulted to junior partners in downtown firms before the ink on their diplomas even dried. I could see myself in an air conditioned office, sitting in a plush leather chair, suit neatly pressed, my own diploma and resume in hand, interviewing for an entry level position.

Not that I'm going to share that nugget of wisdom with the brilliant scholarship student getting ready to paw my sandwich.

My reflexes are too quick. "Amazing, forgot how perfect a ham on…"

A quick and deliberate tug and a haunting tune vibrates the room. It's nothing I recognize, preferring Led Zeppelin and some Stones.

"Shh," Pony lifts his finger up, "I wanna listen to this, it's called _The Lord is in this Place_." And for some reason Pone wants me to listen to it as well. For his sake I do.

And if I don't want to quip that judging from the clothes and books on the floor the Lord sure is a lousy housekeeper; but his eyes close and something in his expression is pulled into the woman's controlled, melancholy hum. He feels something in this song, I know that much.

I do my best to hear what he feels. There's a bluesy quality and you don't need much imagination to conjure up the weather-beaten rickety porch and a lonely stretch of dusty road. I stop myself before I conjure up a one-eyed dog, a toothless old man and makings of a cornpone country song.

The song ends abruptly with what sounds like coins hitting against a bare floor. Pony's eyes open and once again his face is an opposing poker player's nightmare.

"Mind if I smoke?" I would be impressed that he's asking my permission, except that he's already standing up, moving towards the center of his room.

I figured Pony smokes pot. I don't have any moral qualms with it, but it's the legal consequences that Pony could face if he's caught. I also figure that if Pony's going to smoke, I'd rather have him do it in the privacy of his bedroom.

Reading my mind, Pony throws back his head, "I'm careful."

"So where do you keep the refer madness you ain't never smoked before in your life?" Knowing Pony he has an elaborate hiding place with decoys and traps.

"In the same place you didn't keep your porn," and lifts his mattress up.

Or it could just be under his mattress.

"I read all the articles."

"Hmm, now that's one euphemism I've never heard before. 'Readin' all the articles', betchya also 'flipped through the pages' and 'beat the binding,' huh?" He sounds so much like Soda. My chest is carved hollowed. But Pony only gives me a sly grin that matches my own.

I laugh to shut the memories, "yeah, gonna beat your ass if you don't stop running that damn mouth, And… that ain't no euphemism." But my threat, even in jest, holds little against the kid brother who's coming eerily close to closing in on me.

We're both smoking now.

His eyebrows rise when he sees my perfect ring. _Come on, it's not rocket science_. And then I try to outdo myself, watching the second ring expand as a third ring squeezes in the space between. We shoot the breeze and it's nice to have a conversation with a brother that doesn't end in shouts or silence.

"What do you think?" He sounds like Pony and looks at me with genuine curiosity. You'd think he harvested the plant himself.

"Don't notice a thing." I can't believe people smoke this shit and I can't believe the cops give a hang if anyone does.

It's my first time and judging from my experience, my last. I don't feel at ease, if anything my muscles are tightened and my mind on heightened alert guarding against any release, physical or otherwise.

"Got plans for the rest of the summer?" I ask him a question that I should know the answer too.

My brother shifts in his seat, his shoulders rise to his ears. I've hit a sore spot, I just don't know what or how. _Tracey._

"What about taking a Greyhound to Albany and meeting up with Tracey?" Smoke strangles the air. I can't believe I'm even suggesting this.

"Altoona. She lives in Altoona." He nods towards the dresser. "Sides I can't leave y'all." That too and I'm grateful that he understands.

"Still with Ellen?" He's trying to change the subject and he's almost as good as I am at it.

"Broke up." My dating life is in the shitter. It's not that I can't get a girl; hell high school football still holds a lot of cache around here. More than it should, to be honest. And it's not that I don't appreciate all that's being offered to me, or that I don't take advantage of it, two, three times a week, if I'm lucky.

But my parents already had two kids and another one on the way when they were my age. How the hell did I go from being a twenty-year old overnight parent of two teenagers, standing out like a sore thumb at parent-teacher conferences, to being one of the few guys from my old group not married or at least engaged?

Even _Randle_ is married with a baby now.

"What are you reading?" I flick the cover of his book. Two can play this game.

" _The Way of a Pilgrim,_ It was written in the 19th Century, it's narrated by this guy who travels throughout Russia practicing the Jesus Prayer," and he sounds more animated talking about, what sounds like a truly boring book, than I've seen him in a while. I cast my line and pull.

"That's the one that goes, 'Give us today our daily bread…" That's the sorry extent of what I remembered of the prayer. Or any prayer. We may no longer be buried in bills, but we weren't exactly swimming in scriptures either.

There's a line about temptation in there too, I think dully, as my eyes zero in on Soda's too neat bed.

The calm I felt knowing where he was these past few days vanishes into thin air. His pillow is propped up, the covers are drawn.

"Nah, that's The Lord's Prayer, The Jesus Prayer goes something like, 'Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me a sinner… and so in the book…"

Words zoom through my brain not stopping for comprehension and once again Pony is regulated to second fiddle in our family symphony.

"He's having nightmares?" My eyes squeeze as I cut into Pony and his Jesus. Soda had nightmares. Brutal snatches of guerrilla warfare playing on repeat. I also knew that when they become too much he crashed with Pony. But I thought he was over it. He told me he was.

"Not bad ones," Pony says slowly, drawing a cautious breath, trying to convince himself that there's a benign reason a twenty-one year old man can't sleep in his own bed.

"He didn't even wake up when that phone rang."

There's strangeness in his voice that piques my interest. "Who called? Steve? Two-Bit?" I groan. "Mary?"

That's the last thing we need. If I'm honest, I'll admit that Soda's hasn't improved since he dumped her, but I'm sure they're still hanging out.

"It was for me, Benny called."

"At two in the morning? What was he drunk?" I snort. High would be more like it, I silently muse. "Everything okay?" Benjamin Hoffmann made Abbie Hoffman come across as the voice of restraint, reason and reasonable use of illicit substances, but he cared about my brother and he stood up and vouched for him at a time when Pony needed him. That made Ben a standup guy in my book.

"Yeah, I guess."

Then I remember why Ben stood up for Pony, the trouble he got into through no fault of his own, and once again my eyes scan the room only fall onto Soda's bed. I don't have time for Pony's answer on why Hoffmann called, my mind is laser focused on Soda. It always is.

"What? It didn't even cross your mind to tell me that our brother's having nightmares?"

And I wasn't doing a damn thing to stop it. I can't get Soda's son back to him, couldn't stop him from joining the army the minute he turned 18, and can't stop him from puncturing his veins with smack.

I knead deep into my temples and clutch onto my anger. It's always served me better than helplessness or fear or guilt. Or sorrow.

My voice, my accusation is rightly harsh but misdirected. I pull it back and modulate my tone, "you gotta keep me in the loop, okay?"

"He didn't want you to know." His quiet voice is frank but not unsympathetic, his fingers weave together and he brings his clasped hands together to his forehead in supplication. Seeking forgiveness, but not from me, from Saint Soda.

The atmosphere is tense and I can feel Pony's discomfort, not wanting to betray Soda. I get it. I don't want him to let down Soda either, but the Soda Pony is covering for isn't our brother. He looks down at his book and rereads the same paragraph at least three times.

I can't blame Soda for only wanting to talk to Pony. Pony is a good listener and he'll never tell Soda anything he doesn't want to hear.

I get not wanting to share everything. Only Soda can really get me to open up. Or could. He's got a lot on me. Partially because he can suss out any secret; but mostly because I felt comfortable talking to Soda. He was probably too young for everything I told him. But he never bullshitted me or judged me.

Accepted me warts and all.

"What about you, reading any good books lately?" He's trying to change the subject again. He slouches into the wall and my six foot tall kid brother suddenly looks very small.

"Finished _In Cold Blood_ a month ago."

Pony's already read it. He wants to read _Tropic of Cancer_ next. One of the few books I've read that he hasn't I think with a lame pride.

"Knew you should've never read _The Carpetbaggers_ , it corrupted you, kid," I try to laugh but looking at Soda's empty bed it comes out as bitter.

 _Why can't he talk to me, dammit?_

"I need something to wash all this religious stuff down."

"You read _Tropic of Cancer_ and you're gonna have to memorize the whole Bible in repentance."

"We've gone through worse."

 _Doesn't Soda know the reason I fight him is because I'm fighting for him?_

"We have Mom's copy?"

 _I'm not Pony, I can't pretend everything's honkey dory. Stop being an asshole. You're just pissed Soda won't talk to you._

"What, of the Bible?" With guilt I scan my memory trying to remember where it was. But I can barely keep track of my own brother.

"No, _Tropic of_ Soda, _Cancer,_ it might be neat to read her copy."

"Your book, is it fiction or non-fiction?" I'm not in the mood for this conversation. Not in the mood to think of my mother and what she would think if she knew how much I was failing Soda.

Pony stares straight ahead at the wall, his expression blank, flat. "Who knows." He haphazardly traces his fingers across the embossed title, "it's about God."

My stomach drops into the pit. It's not what he says, it's his tone. As if someone had squeezed the life out of it. His eyes are blank and he looks at his brother's empty bed. The shadows of the setting sun carve into his face.

I knew I had a brother dangling on the edge. My mistake? I only thought it was Soda.

* * *

Tonight I'm in my bed, fully stretched out like a little kid making a snow angel. Through my blinds, slits the moon, the monocle of a one-eyed god. And somewhere, wandering, or more likely partying it up, my brother. I'm reading my book; I like to reread my favorite passages before I have to return it.

" _After I said good-bye to everyone, with God's help I set out on my journey and just as I was leaving the town, in the yard of the last house I passed I saw a man whom I recognized; he was once a wanderer also and I had not seen him for three years. We greeted each other and he asked me about my destination._

 _I answered, 'God willing, I am on my way to Jerusalem."_

My eyes shut into the blurred ink.

* * *

 **1959**

I woke up on the surface of the moon.

It wasn't rocky, like I thought, but smooth, thick white sand. Moon sand was nothing like the sandbox at the park. That sand was brown and grainy with tiny pebbles, little army men buried deep into the wood box, twigs and sometimes the smell and wetness of kid pee.

I always wear sneakers.

When I pressed my bare foot into this sand it was like walking on air, but a solid, unbreakable air. My foot sank a bit with each step and I could feel the soft sand against the arch of my foot and in between my toes. I never been to the beach but I think that's what it would feel like to walk on real sand.

When I looked down there was no footprint.

Then I saw him. A little moon man. I stared to gloat, which is kind of hard to do when there's no one around to see you gloat. Darry had been real sure that there was no such thing as moon men or Martians, and here was one walking right towards me! He wore a green and silver space suit the gleamed and shined, he had on a helmet and two little antennas coming out of his head.

He was walking towards me awfully fast.

Then I noticed that he had the body of a kid, he was my height, my weight, my shape.

I was curious and a bit scared. I put one foot forward and one foot back.

"Who are you?"

Then something really strange happened. Just as I said 'you' he started to speak. "You are here!" Our yous melted like chocolate chips into each other.

He had my voice. He sounded exactly like me.

"There you are! I knew exactly it was you!" He laughed and his laugh sounded exactly like mine. It was mine. And when he laughed, I could see his mouth open, could hear his laughter is my ears, but it was my throat that vibrated as if his laughter had come from inside of me.

"Who are you?" I asked for a second time, "Are you my twin?" Maybe we all had moon twins out there?

We faced each other, like we were in the mirror. He moved to the right, I moved to the left.

"I'm you and you're me and together we are we." The boy explained to me, smiling.

Then I laughed too. I understood. I couldn't explain it, but I understood. That boy was me and not me and I was him and not him all at the same time. He was the deepest part of me, and I was the deepest part of him.

"I'm so happy you're here, I wanna show you around." And I wasn't sure who was speaking.

Then I looked around. Space looked nothing like I'd imagine. I thought space would look a bit like the inside of our television set: grey, fuzzy and static. But not this space. This space had colors like from a kaleidoscope.

The colors all had depth and their own texture. Purple felt soft, like a feather tickling my nose. Red was a thick, cozy blanket. Blue was cotton candy melting in my mouth. I stuck my tongue out and tiny bits of gold that tasted like chocolate and popcorn swooshed against my teeth. But it's still hard to describe.

It was as if all of the yellows on earth came together to make this new space yellow; same with blue and green and red and purple.

It was beautiful. The corners of my eyes were wet with tears. But here, on the moon, tears weren't made out of sadness or anger. They didn't even hurt. Nothing here hurt.

"I know." The me who wasn't me said as he put his arm around. And I could feel it. I could feel the warmth of his arm draped over my shoulder. And I could feel my hand against the back of his foiled cover neck even though my own hands were down at my sides. I could give and receive at the same time.

I was mesmerized by the float of pastel colors: peaches, pinks and a shade somewhat between blue and green that could never be found on earth.

"Open your mouth," me said and I opened my mouth and the floating colors zoomed inside. I felt them go in, I felt my mouth open, felt my chest open too. The colors were cool, bubbling springs.

"Ahhhhh," I sighed and closed my eyes, tiny bits of apricot color dusted my lips.

The colors were so alive I couldn't believe they belonged to any world I did, even a space world.

"We can float too," my friend explained and soon the two of us were floating on moon air as if it was a raft taking us down the laziest river.

"Um, am I dead?" Maybe I wasn't on the moon at all. Maybe I was in heaven. I wasn't sure how I'd gotten up to the moon in the first place. Maybe my rocket ship broke past the galaxy and into the heavens.

Maybe it wasn't moon sand that was holding me up, but the hands of God. We bounced back to the surface.

Me just laughed, "I hope not! Then I'd be dead!"

"Then where am I?" Yellow was singing in my ear and violet was strumming a guitar in the distance.

"You're in space" and our arms opened wide and our grins wider.

A lot of people wouldn't be very happy the godless Commies or at least at least a godless Commie dog made it to heaven first. But it didn't bother me; I'd figure there was enough heaven for everyone.

I nodded. Maybe that was all space was, a tiny bit of heaven with little moon twins who wore green antennas.

I was about to ask if there were space dogs when me continued to speak, "you're in your space. This is your galaxy, Pony."

It was the first time he called me by name.

"This," he reached down and picked up some moon sand, "this is all yours." And we looked down together into the moon crater. Each crater was a pool of water.

The two of us, in blue and white striped pajamas, in a space suit, looked into our pool.

"Come on! Let's jump in. Geronimooooo!" My voice echoed with joy. I grabbed my hand and in we went. The crater was about a foot by a foot, but inside it was deep, expansive and never ending.

It was like no watering hole or pool I'd ever been in. Dad takes us to the Arkansas and the Canada all the time. But here, there were no chiggers, mosquitoes or snakes.

Here everything was clean and clear.

I could breathe. I didn't need to plug my nose, or take gasping breaths every time I surfaced up to feel the warmth of the sun.

Here the temperature was perfect.

We played tag, which was a bit hard since we could never tell who was 'it.' Then we floated. When we floated I looked up and saw the stars. Each star was its own universe and yet small enough that a million stars could fit inside my eye.

They sparkled and I reached up and touched one. It was warm, hot almost, but it didn't burn. There was a light prick when the star touched my index finger, but it didn't hurt. It just felt. Like touching a television and getting an electric shock without any pain.

I blew it off and watched it dance back up.

Another thing about this outer space was its shape, it was curved it felt a bit like being inside a snow globe, except there was no glass. It went on forever. But I knew I could never get lost here. How could I get lost? This was mine.

"I can't wait to show Soda all of this."

Space me turned to look at pajama me, "Soda? Soda can't come here. This is our world. Your dad, mom, Darry, Soda, they all have their own worlds."

"But I don't want that, I want Soda. If this is my world I ougta be able to invite anybody I want up here."

"But you have me. I'm here. And I've been waiting for you for so long," space me cried out. He sounded miserable and his sadness pressed hard against my chest.

I felt exactly like I did after a ferocious game of cops and robbers or cowboys and Indians. Or Nazis and Uncle Pat. He's sort of mean looking and he has a lot of tattoos. Soda thinks he's the coolest guy and Darry loves showing off his arm wrestling moves on him. But he kinda scares me.

Soda, even though he loves cowboys always wanted to be the Indian and since I want to be everything Soda was, I did too. Darry says there ain't no such thing as Indian Cowboys, but dad says that there are. He says some of the bravest cowboys who ever lived were Indians.

I crossed my arms, "I don't want you. I want Soda. I want to go to Soda's world." I figure Soda's galaxy had a lot of horses to ride and trees to climb. Best of all, it had Soda.

He shook his head, "you can't." Quick the water drained and made a slurping noise like it had been sucked through the world's largest straw; and now the two of us were sitting in about two inches of moon crater water. The water was no longer special. It was kind of like the soapy water that gets stuck at the bottom of the tub even after the plug is pulled.

"I don't care. I don't want to be here no more. I'm going back."

"But won't you miss me?" my space boy looked so sad and if colors had depth in my space, sadness was a canyon.

"No," I lied and shook my head hard between shame and anger. How could this be my world when the best person in my world couldn't enter?

"I'll miss us so much, Pony." And he disappeared into the blink of an eye, the flash of a star and a thick cold blah-blah nothingness as short as my name and as large as the universe.

The universe goes on forever.

* * *

 _A/N_

 _Thank you. This chapter took me a lot longer that I'd expected and went through so many different incarnations. Thank you to everyone who read, followed, liked and who left such lovely reviews of the first chapter. Your reviews mean so much to me._

 _S.E. Hinton owns, I also don't own The Way of A Pilgrim, (the quotes are from the version translated by Helen Bacovcin. Or The Lord is in this Place, or any of the other music, television and literary references. Or the famous Churchill 'enigma' quote._

 _* The reference to Benny Hoffmann and to how he helped Pony is a plot I have floating around in my head but not on paper yet, so if you were confused by that mention, that's why._


	3. Chapter 3

_Welcome back! Not going to lie: this chapter took a lot out of me. I had this chapter in mind for a while, but it's my first time writing a really extended dialogue scene. So fingers crossed..._

* * *

 ** _Winter 1968/69 - Spring 1969_**

"Who's that?" From my friend's flirtatious tone one hand is already lifting her hemline up or plunging her neckline down. The other pushes lightly into the crook of my arm. "In line, baseball cap," Meredith points, but it's difficult to see anyone in the sea of jackets, most of them too threadbare for the weather that's pulling everyone into the cafeteria for lunch like moths to a greasy flame.

Old habits die hard because it takes a lot for me not to pull her arm down and tell her not to point. I can't help it; I was babysitting this weekend.

Outside it's one of those winters that belongs to Chicago or North Dakota, not Oklahoma; with the temperatures in the low twenties and snow wrapped like sterile dressing around the trees, cars and ground. The smell of meatloaf, ketchup, and scores of bodies permeates the air like musk. "It smells like a guy," I sniff the air, "a sweaty man."

"He turned around," Meredith whispers and now I know how Margaret Mead must have sounded like when she came upon the tribes of the South Pacific.

"Oh well," I start off cheerfully "we'll see him at the register." I try to hide my own curiosity. "This better be worth it." She saw him for what? Ten seconds? No one is that good looking to make that type of impression in that amount of time.

"Have I ever steered you wrong?"

We're laughing so hard I make a super attractive snorting noise out my nose. The answer is of course. But I'm goony about Meredith.

Then I see him.

The half pulled up, half pulled down collar of his Sherpa collared jacket; the tufts of hair sticking out from under his hat. Even from the back, I would recognize him anywhere.

"That's just Ponyboy Curtis. My Gosh, Meredith it's not like it's Paul McCartney." I chuckle and stare for a few seconds, "he should straighten out his collar."

"What?! You know him? And how did I not know this?" Meredith is practically spastic. Which I don't understand, the University of Tulsa is not a large school, my high school was bigger. Wouldn't it make sense that I would know him? I'm more surprised Meredith doesn't know Ponyboy. I thought everyone did.

Taking an extra-long sip of my root beer, just to play with her, I finally speak when her fist lightly jabs into my shoulder. "We went to Rogers together…" and because Meredith might actually murder me if she found out I kept this a secret from her and because it's not a secret, "we dated."

Her fork and knife clang together as her hand slaps down on her tray, "you dated that gorgeous creature over there and you never told me? Cathy, if he was my boyfriend I'd do everything short of murder to keep him."

I sigh, why do people always act as if looks are the only kindle needed to keep a relationship burning? Look at all the divorces in Hollywood. If good looks was all you needed I would have fallen in love with Ponyboy Curtis.

"We were together for a few months in high school." I say high school like its Timbuktu, a distant, foreign place I'd never visit, although I actually liked my school.

Scrunching her face and leaning with conspiratorial zeal, her shoulder brushing against mine, she whispers with a voice starving for juicy gossip, "what's wrong with him? Not enough meat on his loaf?" She looks down at her gravy soaked, crumbled meatloaf.

"No!" I laugh, half mortified. "We never...'scuse me." I finish swallowing the dried, over-salted piece of meat.

"Well then, there has to be something wrong with him. What? He's a weirdo? He eats his toenail clippings? He eats _your_ toenail clippings? Work with me here."

"No!" I laugh again; eww toenail clippings? Then I feel myself becoming defensive, although I'm not sure if it's more on Pony's behalf or my own. My lips tighten, "he's a real sweet guy it just didn't work out between us."

With my fork I poke tiny holes into the globs of blood red ketchup plastered to the side of the burnt end piece like wet cement.

She sighs, "cute and nice, and you let him slip through your fingers? Gosh Carlson, I don't even know what to do with you anymore."

Pony is at the cash register when Meredith calls out over the dozens of conversations around us, "PONYBOY! PONYBOY CURTIS!" He looks around confused, until he sees Meredith, who grabs my arm and waves it in the air like a puppet on a Marionette string.

"What are you doing you loon?!" I laugh the way you do when it's a lot funnier if it wasn't happening to you. But by the time Pony makes solid eye contact with us, Meredith is sitting up straight, as proper as a front row finishing school student and I give him a friendly smile and my normal wave.

He walks towards us; his slow cooker grin spreads across face. He really does have a gorgeous smile.

"I've died and gone to heaven," Meredith mutters.

"Your heaven has a hair in your mashed potatoes," but Meredith doesn't hear me she's already up in the clouds.

Meredith is loony tunes over him. She leans forward with her chin in her palms, hanging on to his every word. It's high school all over again. After everything Ponyboy practically became a living legend. There were all sorts of stories and rumors circling about him, most I quickly found out, weren't true. He didn't save a cheerleader from drowning herself, but he did heroically save the lives of a dozen little kids in a fire. He didn't knife a kid to death in a park that was another friend in self-defense.

I felt bad for him, because he never wanted the attention. Of course no one in their right mind wants attention because of something so horrific. He largely kept to himself, but it didn't matter. Everyone knew who Pony was. I think his shyness only added to the mythology that built around him. No one could wrap their heads around the fact that this quiet, honor roll kid and track star had been at the locus of three violent deaths.

We had gone to the same junior high, but I was a square, the gawky noodle-limb girl with braces and a hideous Peter Pan haircut. He never gave me a second glance, besides I wasn't yet interested in boys for him to give me a second glance.

Sometimes I wonder if that's why he wanted to date me. Because I attended Graves the year everything happened, I was as close to a fresh slate as he'd ever get.

Momma has this saying; he has the personality of a lamb and ego a lion. They pretend to be humble while deep inside they love all the fawning. Not Ponyboy. And for all of his intelligence he never grasped that effect he had on people. The way half the knees in the girls' locker room would turn to Jell-O whenever his name popped up in conversation. But personally, I think there comes a point where too much humility is almost as annoying as arrogance.

And yet, he's so insightful! That's what drives me nuts! In his quiet, unassuming way he pierces through all of the different Cathys I've claimed for myself.

I didn't know what to make of him then, and I still don't.

Pony talks to us about Slate/Paper, Meredith, whom I love to death but who hasn't read anything more taxing than _Cosmo_ , gushes that she reads it religiously. I snort and hide it with a dry cough, which in this weather isn't too difficult. Out of the corner of his mouth Pony gives a tiny smirk meant for my eyes only. I cover my mouth to hide my giggle and pretend to listen while Pony, far more comfortable listening than talking about himself, asks Meredith a question.

When it's time for him to go, he stands up and extends his hand to Meredith, "it was nice talking with you Meredith," and then because he was raised right, "don't be a stranger, Cathy." But the way he says it, I think actually means it. His hand is bigger and warmer than I remember. His smile is as sweet and lopsided as ever.

Without realizing it my thumb and forefinger rub together.

Meredith sighs, just like I knew she would. "You aren't kidding, he's even more gorgeous up close and his voice, it's deep but he's so soft spoken and polite. He's as sweet as you said. But…"

I grab onto her hesitation like a starved dog reaching for a bone. "But what?" An ugly part of me is glad that at least one person isn't as taken by Ponyboy Curtis as most of the female student body at Will Rogers.

"Oh, I don't mean anything negative at all, he's not a freak or anything, there's something… different about him."

Meredith, for all the effort she puts into her flighty boy crazy persona, can get to the heart of the matter faster than I can.

I think about what she says, and she's right, there is something different about Ponyboy. I know he used to fight in rumbles and even carried an actual switchblade around like a J.D. But I've also seen him standing unobtrusively against the wall at the Rubiot, hands at his sides, listening to jazz and poetry readings. And the soft, sheepish laugh he gave when I suggested that he go up and read some of his poems, "nah, they're not that good. Besides, they're personal." He never let me read any of them.

I never knew that a guy, except maybe an open homosexual, could be as obsessed with _Gone with the Wind_ as Pony Curtis. He has a quiet, self-deprecating sense of humor, but once you get to know him you realize how zany and offbeat he is.

At Graves, we had this saying, not an insult, but a euphemism to describe someone who is nice but also slightly eccentric, "he's the creative type."

* * *

"You cut your hair."

I pat down my new Twiggy inspired haircut as if I need to physically remind myself. "Oh, yeah Evie twisted my arm," I laugh even though she didn't need to twist it that much.

Bryon Douglas leans a thick arm against the dolly stacked with wet boxes and gives me a hard stare, "I doubt that. You never did have any problem speaking your mind." He sounds so much like Mark it's unnerving.

Why is he doing this to me? More to the point why I am letting him do this to me? "Neither do you," I try to sound cool and removed but it's hard around him.

Bryon gives me a tiny smile, "true. It looks good on you Carlson. Course I thought your hair looked even better long, but what do I know? I got this shaggy beast to deal with." He shakes his own impossibly thick hair with a devil-may-care-grin.

I can't help my laugh. "I'll keep that in mind."

"What brings you here?" That's what I like about Bryon he doesn't beat around the bush.

"Pork chops," I point to the advertisement on the window. "Momma's having…"

"Listen Cathy, I'm sorta busy here. It was nice seeing you. I'll see ya around." We both know he's lying. I feel like such a fool for volunteering to come down here today, such a fool for wanting to see Bryon and wanting to really talk, like we used to.

What's the point? I'm so stupid. I feel like a mouse trapped in a maze, the mouse that no matter how many times they're shocked with electric currents always opens the wrong door.

I'm about to head towards the meat department when I hear his voice call to me, "Cathy?" When I turn around, quicker than I planned, with sincerity and concern he adds "say hey to M&M for me."

Not trusting my voice, I nod.

I'm a mess. A complete and utter mess. Nothing about my feelings towards Bryon Douglas makes any sense. Least of all to me. On paper I can see his flaws so clearly. I can even see the ways he doesn't quite measure up to Ponyboy Curtis, but my heart isn't a ledger where everything balances out at the end. I can't apply reason or checks and balances to love. I know what I want, and for the longest time even long after it was good for me or even sensible, I wanted Bryon.

I still do.

Feeling the cold air against my face, I laugh one of those drag-me-to-the-insane-asylum laughs. I'm supposed to be sensible, reasonable, but deep down I have always been a wild eyed romantic.

Nearly every line in my clandestine copy of _The Feminine Mystique_ is underlined and yet I dream about being swept off my feet by a big,strong, handsome man. I'm embarrassed but even after we broke up that man was always Bryon Douglas. It was always supposed to be him.

But it's more than that, it's even more than the way he was there for me the night we rushed my brother to the hospital. If around Ponyboy I'm the person I really am, around Bryon I'm the person I want to be, easy going and lighthearted.

With Bryon I had fun. Not that I didn't have a lot of fun dates with Ponyboy, but not like it was with Bryon. I got to be the fun girl, the one with the funny, groovy boyfriend. Can you believe I can actually make people laugh? I never knew I could do that. All those nights just riding the Ribbon with his arm around me, making me feel like someone special.

And now look at us? We're eighteen and already bitter exes. Today at the grocery store was the most we've talked in months. I guess it's a blessing in disguise we broke up when we did. But I miss him, I miss that magical part of my childhood when my family was whole, when homework was my biggest concern and I got to ride in cars with beautiful boys.

I put my groceries on the conveyor belt, touch the paper around the pork chops. Against every urge I don't look around to see if Bryon is somewhere, looking at me. To feel desperate is bad enough, to show your desperation is ruinous. He had his chance.

* * *

I don't know what I'm doing but I fumble with one of Chris's army men and dial the number I still know by heart. I've dated, included some positively ghastly ones since starting college, but what I need right now is a friend. Someone who I can trust. A voice, deep and so tired sounding I double check the clock answers; "Curtis residence, Darrel speaking."

"Hi Darrel, this is Catherine Carlson" _Catherine?_ "Um, is Ponyboy there?"

"Oh! Everything's fine, I tried to reach him at the dorms and I guess he wasn't there. Can you please let him know I called?"

* * *

The weight of his arm wrapped around me and my not-guilty-guilt pushes on my chest. How did this happen? How did we end up like this?

Of course I never intended to sleep with my ex-boyfriend, I'm _not_ that type of girl. But what am I saying? Because last night I was that type of girl and last night I was the one made the first move.

But I don't regret it. Not yet. Not when my fingers rub against the light freckles on his shoulders and he lets out a happy groan. Not when my heartbeat is still going a hundred miles per hour.

We're not even dating, I think to myself with a mixture of titillation and disgust. Over the past few months we talked more and more and this week he picked me up at play rehearsals; I'm an extra in Professor Brustle's " _No Triumph for David_ ," it's a really significant play about the war. We talked over greasy pizza and Pepsi (him) and Cherry-Pineapple 7-Up (me) which usually isn't my food of choice but it felt so nice being with him I didn't mind.

Now I'm lying on his hardened mattress, having lied to Momma and Daddy, telling them I was spending the night with Meredith.

This can never happen again. This will never happen again. Thank God we took precautions.

He half turns his head, "good morin'" his voice sleepy and calm. And not, I try to convince myself, a little bit sexy.

My voice usually assured catches on his name, "Ponyboy."

* * *

 ** _Summer 1970_**

Empty except for a few stragglers and looking into the courtyard: shockingly green. In the summer the downtown library resembles the pristine afterbirth of an atomic explosion - right before the mutant cockroaches emerge from masticated skeletons.

I like it. The quiet, I mean. Too many people hovering around while you're looking for a book is almost as bad as having them read over your shoulder.

I'm at the library because the way of this pilgrim is to forget the date due. By three weeks. Once, I had a book trapped two months between the seat and center console of Two-Bit's car.

" _Shoot kid, you nearly put my mom in an early grave when she saw a book in my car."_ Voluntary housework also threatened Mrs. Mathews with an untimely death, fortunately Keith and Brenda Mathews do their best to ensure their mother's optimal health.

The books are stacked at a slight angle, held up more by stubborn force of gravity than will. Softened with age, the cloth bindings are frayed at the seams and loose enough to fit two fingers inside. Not that I'm doing that.

Down goes Thoreau.

Not _Walden_ , but _Walking_.

" _Give me a wildness whose glance no civilization can endure as if we lived on the marrow of koodoos devoured raw,"_ and thinking of 'devoured raw,' thinking of Soda, walking becomes a call of action. Even the kudu, the wild African antelope, reminds me of him. Or, the picture I saw in an old _National Geographic_ of one sporting what almost looked like an untamed beard and this real purposeful, haunted expression.

It's the English major I reckon, sucking out _meaning_ until each line is as dried out as the kudu's devoured corpse. It's hard not to snatch out a brother along the way.

Empty handed, the corner of my eye hits the corner of a table, a head half bent, black hair, hands covering the face, shoulders heaving up and down like accordions tuned by drunken monkeys. I feel bad for intruding even from this distance but as I'm about to walk out, she looks up.

I'm smacked. Gob and door.

"Sorry," I let the man with _The Godfather_ in his grip pass.

Cathy is the kind of tough that doesn't cry. Not like this. Not in public. It's so strange seeing her cry openly that even though we've know each other for years and I know that her hair once smelled like chemically altered fruit, from ten feet away I don't recognize her.

Now that she's Cathy my nervous imagination once again pole vaults above common sense and in time it takes me to reach her I have her kicked out of school, possibly barefoot and probably pregnant.

Our fears for others are sometimes fears for ourselves carried over like some never-ending math equation. Cause it's not Cathy that pops in my head, but Tracey, that rip in the condom. The waiting. That stress could delay a period. I told Soda because even with everything, the idea of not going to Soda is as strange as seeing Cathy Carlson cry in public. "Shit," he sighed, a steady hand on my back of my neck. "Least it would keep you out of the Army," he adds softy.

But when I continued staring into the windshield, picturing my forehead putting a hole through the glass, he shook his head and his words coming out like a low intensity fire hose: "for Chrissake kiddo, it ain't the end of the world." And it wasn't, but only because it was a false alarm. Soda was around my age when he found out he was going to be a father and I wondered if I sounded as much of an asshole as I felt, slumped into the seat under the weight of everything ruined cause of a careless mistake.

My God. How could I bitch about Tracey possibly being pregnant when he lost his son?

In the end Soda was wrong about one thing: Nixon had already rescinded the exemption given to fathers.

My hands brush against my legs, "everything okay?" _No rabbits died lately, right?_

The exasperated scowl is so well pitched I'm sure she knows what I'm thinking. In that case I deserve a lot worse.

"That came out wrong…" There's a reason I'm studying journalism and not rhetoric.

To her yellow skirt, "it's ridiculous." To me, "I shouldn't be crying." The skin around her eyes is puffy and red, like a mild form of eczema localized around her pupils. Cathy, always put together, has snot bubbling inside her nostrils. Reaching into my back pocket to pull out an unused handkerchief all I find is a half-squished Ding Dong and a lone cigarette. Her voice is calm though, not even a wobble. She reaches into her purse for a Kleenex.

"Maybe, maybe not," I start off slowly while she discreetly blows, "but I know you. You're not the type to cry over nothing, so if you wanna talk, we can. Otherwise, say the word and I'll shut up and head out."

But I don't want to head out, not when she's hurting. Tightening my hands around the ridged ears of the chair, tilting it until the hind legs push into the top of my sneakers, we look into the husk of a late afternoon sun. Cathy brings her hand up as a visor. But I stare. Unblinking.

"If you want, you can stay."

It's more of an order than a suggestion, but the corner of my lips lift. She gives me a small smile. And by the time she stretches her arms and pats the space across from her there are six legs on the ground.

The table is empty except for my elbows, her hands and _Tess of the d'Urbervilles_ trapped between us.

"Ding dong?" I place the half-flattened cake on the table, to my surprise Cathy says yes, rips open the package and devours it.

"We're probably not supposed to eat in the library," she eyes the circulation desk, licking the frosting off her fingers before popping the last chunk of cake into her mouth.

"Here, I'll hide the evidence," and carefully scoop up the few crumbs on the table into the open plastic and back in my pocket.

We're trapped between the wall and people walking behind us. Close enough to the door to feel the heat but not close enough to hear it open and close; each whip of warm air taking us by surprise. Soda doesn't like sitting with his back to the door, the bar at _Arnie's_ , with its mammoth mirror working as a second pair of eyes, one of the few exceptions.

Now, with my back to the door and with people walking behind me but with no reaction on my part, no tensed muscles, no rapid heartbeat, no knuckles turning white, no dilated pupils, I think of Soda.

To have even something as simple where you want to sit in a room stolen.

"You know that I haven't been doing well in my teaching courses," she quietly tells her neatly trimmed nails.

In all the years I've known Cathy I can count on a shop teacher's fingers the number of times she's admitted to having trouble with anything. It's not just a matter of pride; she's good at just about everything.

When she looks back up I nod, but I had no idea. Did we talk about this?

"Today I met with Professor Crandle, and she sits me down and starts going over everything I'm doing wrong. And for pity's sake I know I didn't do that great last semester. _I know that_." Her voice drives a stake into each word before it becomes brisk, accusatory, "I'm not failing, of course."

"That's good at least." A slow, sympathetic smile spreads. Cause in spite of her crying I couldn't imagine Cathy actually flunking out of college any more than I could picture her knocked up.

Her smile is embarrassed. Suddenly I get how much of a concession being this open is for someone as proud as Cathy. Already listening, I lean in closer until my forearm is smothering Tess's face.

"Miss. Carlson, I hope you don't take offense to this question, but I'm curious dear as to why…" She starts in a honey thick Southern accent. Cathy's mom is from Georgia and when she wants, she can lay the mint julep talk on thick, though there is a comfort to Mrs. Carlson missing from this impression.

Cathy is great at impressions. Not as good as Soda who has an eerie ability to become, for a split second at least, the person he's imitating. Reincarnation of the living, I guess. But I'm looking into the eyes of a good looking, slender, heavily eye-lined nineteen year old whose hair frames her face like the death sky around a crescent moon, and I see a middle aged professor's neatly pinned salt and pepper bun, the spectacles (not glasses) sliding off the bridge of her nose.

She'd make one hell of actress.

"And I think she's going to ask me why I want to become a teacher."

It sounds like a reasonable question. And unlike me, whose head is either down in a book or up in the clouds, Cathy is an eminently reasonable person. I've also seen her weather insults from her twerpy teenage sister and a boozed up Angela Shepard without batting an eye. _This_ is what's getting her down?

Then I realize I have no fucking clue why Cathy wants to be a teacher either.

"Why do you want to become a teacher?"

Tilting her head, she gives me a studied look while adjusting her purse strap wrapped around the chair. Her eyes crinkle. "You actually want to know?" Her tone isn't unkind, but matter of fact. Curious even. It's taken me years to know the difference.

"I do," my tone is resolute. There's so much about her I don't know.

"I do too," she whispers to us. "That's just it, Ponyboy. I have no idea why I want to become a teacher. I'm sitting in that office and it's at least 90 degrees in there, and even with the fans at full blast my skin feels flushed and I'm thinking, dear Lord, I'm going to pass out. This stupid, innocuous question is throwing me for a loop. But I cannot for the life of me think of what to say."

What would I say if people ask why I chose English? I dig writing? It's true but it sounds corny. It never used to be corny to me. When did loving something unabashedly, when did following your dreams become something to hide?

It never was for Soda. He loved like a damn fool.

"I'm about to tell Professor Crandle I want to become a teacher because I like children, and I do, but it sounds loopy, something a Miss. America contestant would say."

I'm pretty sure a Miss. America contestant would actually say something about her dream of world peace. "It doesn't sound loopy..."

"So I thought about mentioning my mother and my grandmother and how I am hoping to follow in their footsteps, which is true, I suppose, but it sounds so pathetic. As if I can't set my own path. All I know is that I wanted to be a teacher since before I could even question exactly _why_. I never even thought to question it."

I nod, but Cathy is already drawing a breath. For a split second, her eyes close, but when she opens them, puffiness aside, she looks as unflappable, as confident, as _Cathy_ as ever.

"But Professor Crandle didn't ask me why I want to become a teacher. She looks straight in the eye and in her syrupy voice asks: 'Why would any parent ever what _you_ as a teacher? Furthermore, why would any child?"

 _Shit._

"Who the hell is she talkin' to you like that?" My voice rises before I realize where I am, but I don't care. No one should talk to my friend like that. I lower my voice, "what gives her the right to shit on you?"

"I know, right!" Her laugh is the kudu's decayed corpse. Then almost as an aside adds, "if I could do it over again, pick another major, I think I would."

"English?" I ask with a knowing smile.

In our freshman year Cathy told me that she figured that half of the English majors were just kids who had no idea what they wanted out of college or out of life. It didn't bother me. Cathy always had strong opinions.

"Oh gosh, I can't believe I said that. I was an idiot back then," she says with a quick, twitched smile. Her way of apologizing.

I wasn't trying to make her feel bad and now I feel bad.

"You were never an idiot. Anyways, I'm still an idiot."

Cathy only shakes her head in earnest, "no you're not. But I think would like to study computers. I know that's not a major or even really a job, but I was reading this article about IBM, about the computers they use down at Cape Kennedy for the space launch. I think it would be neat to work at one of them."

Her face softens and her eyes light up with enthusiasm that can only be described as out of this world. How she comes alive when she's excited. I grin back at her.

"But that's a pipe dream anyways. Believe it or not," she lets out a small laugh, "I'd probably pick English. Emphasis on early century lit."

"Willa Cather?"

"You remember," she looks kind of touched or maybe surprised. "Probably not Thomas Hardy. Have you read him?"

"Not yet, Next semester we're reading _Jude the Obscure_. " I eye her book, "what don't you like about it?"

"The entire premise! Everything that goes wrong in her life, everything that _can_ go wrong in a life essentially does. I know I'm a sap, but I prefer _Jane Eyre_ or better yet Jane Austin novels, at least there's the chance for happiness in them." Her palm hits in emphasis on top of her book, on top of Tess's face.

Between my lumbering arm and Cathy's slap-happy hand, Tess is getting pummeled.

"Also," she adds slyly, "it's boring. If they're going to assign summer reading they could at least make it interesting."

"A bad life can't be boring," I add half in jest.

"Ha! Really? Okay, try this on for size…" Grabbing the book she flips through the pages, squinting her eyes, her fingers running the length of the text looking for the perfect boring text.

"Here, lemme try." Closing my eyes I flip through the pages.

"And… STOP!"

' _Did you say the stars were worlds, Tess?_

' _Yes'_

' _All like ours?'_

' _I don't know, but I think so. They sometimes seem to be like the apples on our stubbard-tree. Most of them splendid and sound - a few blighted.'_

' _Which do we live on a splendid one or a blighted one?'_

' _A blighted one.'_

I pause. Sometimes when I read something, especially for class it takes weeks for the poetry of the words or the author's meaning to take hold. I'll be listening to Creedence and suddenly BAM a random sentence from _The Stranger_ barrels through my brain like a delayed asteroid.

This I felt right away.

Maybe it's because it reminds me of my childhood, looking up at the stars with my mom. The camping trips us boys and dad would take. Against the warmth of those memories is our new colder reality. That's the part of me that wants to stand up and pump my fist up and scream: HELL YEAH TESS THIS IS A FUCKED UP BLIGHTED WORLD!

But Cathy only shakes her head, "see what I mean? _A blighted world_? It's all so cynical."

"Maybe," I give a conciliatory shrug. I don't want to bring her down any more today.

"You don't agree with me, do you?"

I don't want to lie either.

"It's okay. Anyways, I still say that it's boring. How am I supposed to teach this book to high schoolers if I can barely get through it myself?"

"Cliffnotes."

"I'm shocked! I never thought I'd imagine the day when you recommend I cheat." She clutches her heart and dramatically wipes her brow.

I chuckle, though I don't think Cliffnotes is cheating at all. Man, what would she think of all those papers I write for the guys in exchange for weed? And it's not even the high quality stuff. I don't mind writing the papers though, it helps me become a better writer.

"What can I say, it's a blighted world." I'm aiming for a punchline, but my voice drops a register and any humor is scraped off into resignation.

With surprise and concern she looks at me, and there's disappointment in her voice, "you really do think that."

As much as I like to blame my current mood on what's going on with Soda or some weirdass misanthropic phase that's being fueled by the Existentialists and smoking shitty weed, this dark, self-enclosed part of me probably always existed.

"Yeah, it's all sunshines and lollipops on planet earth. You know war, disease, people starving." The second those words leave my mouth I regret it. Cathy doesn't deserve my cynicism and she actually looks taken aback. My fingers push into my temples as I let out a sigh, "I'm so sorry, I'm being a jerk." I say miserably. I have a nasty habit of lashing out at people who don't deserve it.

Cathy shakes her head undisturbed, "you're being honest." Her eyes glance downward at my feet, "you didn't check out any books?"

"Yeah, couldn't find any good ones, besides, I kinda owe a big fine, I'm surprised there ain't a Wanted poster with my mug on it."

"I'll pay it," she offers kindly and without waiting for me to say anything, puts her purse on the table. "After all you did give me your Ding Dong," she says with sincerity.

The ghost of my thirteen year old self blows a straw wrapper filled with a snorted laugh and I cough awkwardly to suppress it. _Real smooth_. "I can't have you do that, I appreciate it though. Darry said you're coming over?"

"I am so excited about seeing Levi. I bet he's just a little doll. Does he look like Evie?"

"He really doesn't…I dunno, he looks like a baby?"

"Spoken like a true man," she laughs.

" I don't think Evie and Steve have gotten a wink of sleep since he arrived," Like there's a correlation between my inability to decipher which parent Levi Randle looked like and his parents looking like the lone survivors of nuclear holocaust. _Them and 'Killer' the demented-smiled (now radioactive!) Chihuahua. Coming to NBC this fall!_

"I can imagine." But with six younger siblings she doesn't have to imagine, she knows. "I've been talking your ear off, what's going on with you? Still working for _Slate/Paper_?"

"Yeah. Benny called me, you remember Benny Hoffmann?"

"How could I forget, y'all planning on levitating the Pentagon with the overwhelming powers of your mind?" She asks with a wink.

"We couldn't levitate a fly off the ground, but no. He called me cause he wants me to do a story."

"And you're not happy about this?"

My fingers are tapping an SOS on the table, trying to avoid this whole conversation even though I'm the bright guy who brought it up in the first place.

"He wants me to go up Canada for a feature, a single focus special issue." I try to say it casually but my voice is too rushed.

"Ponyboy! That's wonderful! This could be your big break, now why on earth aren't you going?" Her excitement and disbelief are palpable. I get it, it is a once in a lifetime opportunity. But not my life, not now.

Sneaker on knee, I rub my forefinger over the rip in my jeans, rubbing the scar-like string against my skin and look up. "Cause the article in on a commune of draft dodgers."

She gives me a puzzled, encouraging look.

"I know, I know, it doesn't make sense." I have a reputation for being a 'deep thinker.' But I think I'm not so much deep as confused.

'Well, first it's kinda hard to leave home, even for a short while with my job." I figured Cathy could appreciate that reasoning, but she's too smart to buy it. "You know, I hate the war," my voice is a low whisper as if our table is being bugged by the ghost of George Patton, but filled with years of silent passion burning up ready to explode.

'And I don't think the guys who ditch the draft are cowards or anything, in fact I sorta admire them for taking a stand and doing what they think is right." The words shoot out of me like a death row confession. "But I won't, I can't talk to them. Not when Soda lost so many buddies. Not when Soda's suffering. It's the same reason I won't ever protest or a sign a petition." It doesn't exactly ring out like 'hell no we won't go.'

I look straight into her deep grey eyes, "If I thought those rallies would help my brother, end the napalm attacks and bring everyone home, I'd tie myself to the Pentagon…"

"Or," Cathy interrupts, my intensity unnerving her, "burn a hole in front of McFarlin." Once Randy Adderson led an anti-draft march of one on campus; his turn as Tulsa's David Harris ended when he accidentally dropped his lighter and scorched a tiny hole into the ground. They wanted to charge him with attempted arson, vandalism and mayhem, but settled for him being kicked out of school.

"What an incorrigible idiot," Cathy half laughs half mumbles to herself.

I can't really disagree with Cathy but I like Randy. Him and Benny both. I would do whatever I could for either of them. Just not write this article for Benny.

"Randy and Benny ain't the problem, the war is. But some of the protesters drive me nuts."

"Really? Why?"

"Cause I've seen how quickly those chants can go from laying the blame with politicians to the soldiers on the ground. These guys are being mistreated by everyone. Blamed for a war that ain't their fault and now being blamed cause things are goin' south." It's fucking bullshit.

"That's horrible, but you know they aren't talking about Soda, they're trying to prevent other families from having to experience what your family has," and she's so sensible and so naïve. She doesn't get it.

But they are talking about Soda. These guys don't know Soda. That's the problem. They don't know that he could be the nicest guy on this blasted planet. That he had gone to war for me, to protect me. That he gave me and Darry everything he had even when he had nothing left to give. That he has a little boy in Vietnam. All they knew was that my brother was a soldier which in their eyes made him no different from those guys who raped and murder the women, children and babies at My Lai. Thing is, I think Soda hates himself so much that if some fuckwad spits on him and called him a 'baby killer' he'd just take it. Wipe the spit all over his face like war paint.

"They're talking about someone's brother though." I think of Curly Shepard. I think of Soda. I think of all the guys from my high school whether they volunteered like Soda or got drafted like Shepard.

She's quiet for a moment, "but you write for _Slate/Paper."_

"I know, it doesn't make sense."

But when it came to my brother and this war he fought, nothing does.

There is a pause and I think Cathy's going change the subject when in a worried voice, she continues, "I don't know what I'd do if they drafted M&M Or Pete or Chris? My God. Do you really think it will go on that long?" She looks at me like I actually have her answer.

"I don't. Besides he got accepted into college right? He'll have his deferment." God I hope I'm right. I don't add that with all of his issues I doubt Uncle Sam's gonna take Edwin Carlson under any circumstances. Why couldn't Soda's torn ligament keep him out of the army?

"When I was little I wanted to go to college almost as much as I wanted to be a teacher but I never thought that college could be an actual life saver."

The back of my neck flushes with a million tiny bugs and I uncross my leg, shuffling my feet under the legs of my chair. Because the stars, those splendid and blighted worlds aligned a certain way I'm in college right now. Relief and guilt, I'm finding out, are two sides of the same coin.

"I wish it wasn't Benny who asked me," I sighed. "I hate letting anyone down, but especially him."

"I know. I ran into Bryon Douglas at the grocery store last week."

"How is he?"

"As if you care!" Her laugh is loud and rolling. Sometimes her honesty can be a real pain.

"Give me the Cliffnotes version."

"Ha! Very funny. Well, he's the manager at his store now, but he's actually thinking of becoming a cop."

My eyes are going to pop out of their socket. "No foolin'." I don't add that I can see Officer Douglas roughing up some long haired kids down by the Ribbon.

"Yeah, he said what happened with my brother really changed him, said he wants to give back to the community, help those in need. He turned Mark in to the cops, but he did it for my brother, and for me." Her voice breaks a bit on these last two words. "But for the longest time he would act like he blamed me for everything that happened. I never knew how to feel around him, unease or hurt or grateful. Then we had this really nice long conversation and he apologized to me. Sincerely too."

What a fucking douche. Now I'm pissed off at Douglas and myself for not picking up on it. "He shouldn't have treated you like that," I say softly but with every ounce of conviction.

"It's complicated, Ponyboy." There's a weariness in her voice and she sounds so much older than almost twenty.

This weird selfish gratitude comes over me I think of Bryon and Mark and I think of my brothers. Yeah, Darry and Soda don't always get along that great right now, but I never doubt that they love each other. That Darry would go to hell and back for Soda and me and Soda and I would do the same in a heartbeat. We have something deeper than brothers.

"He turned his own brother in, can you believe it?"

My eyes narrow. "I can't."

"How is Soda?" Cathy asks in a tepid voice. She shifts in her seat and she looks uncomfortable, which makes me feel defensive.

"Not bad," I lie. I almost say 'good' but I can't even twist my tongue around that whopper.

"I ran into him, a while ago." Her mouth opens and closes, struggling for words, which is something I rarely see from Cathy.

"Was he okay?" A sick feeling claws my chest and my feet stop tapping.

"He kept on asking me about my brother, asking to talk to him about not using drugs." Her voice is clipped. Not angry exactly, but if I can't hear her use that voice to shut up a bunch of rowdy students right before she whips a pop quiz on them. And she thinks she won't cut it as a teacher…

I had no idea M&M was messing around again. Poor Cathy.

Her words start sinking into me, into my own marrow. I want to bawl. This is my brother. Yeah maybe a junkie isn't the best person to speak to M&M Carlson right now, but Soda would do anything to help someone in need. It doesn't matter that he's fighting his private hell. This is who Soda is.

"He would you know. He likes you both; he still raves about the cookies you used to send to him." I give her a weak smile.

She looks bewildered. " _No. My brother..._ her voice softens, "tell him that I enjoyed baking those cookies."

"I would, but then you'd be on the hook for at least two dozen. Hey, maybe you could bring some of your cookies to the cook out?"

"Already promised your other brother I'd bring the award winning Baker family potato salad."

"Award winning?" I raise an eyebrow.

"It's nothing, just a blue ribbon at some Methodist church social. Speaking of, I saw your paper won the religious department's special citation, congratulations. I read it actually."

"Thanks." I forgot that papers that won end of the year department awards were put on display at our library. "What'd think of it?" Cathy's always been real honest with me, even when I kind of wish she wasn't, but this was just a school paper it wasn't anything real personal like my poems or other writings.

"It was good, maybe a bit too esoteric for me. But," she tacks on quickly, "I could tell it was good, more than good, excellent actually. If this writing thing doesn't pan out for you, you could always become a monk."

"I already took a vow of poverty and I have it on good authority that I've already mastered the vow of silence."

That was one of the reasons for our breakup. _"Pony I always feel like I'm having a conversation with myself when I try to talk to you."_ What I couldn't say at the time was that I may be a quiet guy, but I listened.

She meets my smile with her own.

"What are you gonna do about your classes?"

"I'm going to move."

"Cathy…"

"Just out of my house. I already talked to Momma and Daddy about it. I can't study and can barely sleep with all those kids. I'm moving in with Meredith her roommate just got married; it's closer to the hospital anyways."

"Whatchya parents say?" I always liked Mr. and Mrs. Carlson.

"Daddy is like 'I know we can trust _you_ Cathy.' But he looks right at Edwin when he says it. I hate that he can't stick up for me without getting in his little dig."

"I get it, moving out I mean. You have to do what's best for you. Hey, if you need help moving your stuff, let me know, I can probably get Darry to help too."

"Thank you, as for the rest, I'm not sure." Her perfect posture slumps a hare's breadth. "It's not as if I want to become an actress. If I wanted to become an actress and I couldn't cut it, I think I would understand because it's nearly impossible to make it, you have to be really special. But all I ever wanted was to have a classroom of my own and be a teacher. At least that's what I thought but now I'm not sure, now I'm questioning everything."

I think of Darry, how his dream of going to college was first thwarted by having no money and then by our parents' deaths. What was worse to give up your dream or to discover you never wanted it at all?

"Do you know how to do that? Letting go of your dream?"

"I don't know, but I do know this. Whether you're a teacher or not, you're gonna be a success." She was a real smart, hardworking and stubborn person. She reminds me a lot of Darry.

"Okay." She scratches her book cover, "sometimes I wonder if I really belong there. I never felt that way before Ponyboy and it's frightening. I know this sounds conceited but I never struggled with anything before, not where school is concerned. I don't know how."

It's funny, she never opened up like this when we dated. I never heard Cathy be this vulnerable and I wanted to help her.

"I don't always feel like I belong there either."

"Oh come on, you're in the honors program and your paper won the Department award, you are not struggling. Wait, are you?"

"No, not with grades, but our freshman year, I had to read this excerpt out loud for one of my seminar classes. It was the word 'au jus' I knew it was French. But I never heard the word spoken before." My example is sounding dumber and dumber the more it roped from my brain to my tongue, especially compared to Cathy's struggles. But it was too late to stop.

"And I pronounced it ah jussssss, like a snake slithered at the end of the word." The corner of my mouth twists into a painful smile. I think of my first year of college how I felt like a blind man trying to make it through the city with no cane. Even Darry couldn't really help me.

"They didn't dare laugh," Cathy looks at me with wide eyed concerned.

"Nah, no one did. But there are all these words that I read so many times and I can define them, but I had no clue how to pronounce them cause I never heard them spoken before. And even though no one made a big deal out of it, in the back of my mind it was high school all over again. I was the lone greaser in a class full of Socs and didn't belong."

"Bullshit." It always shocks me to hear her swear. "You know that's not true. You very much belong there, you're one of the smartest people I've ever known."

"Thanks." I appreciate her compliment even though I never really know how to react when I get them.

"Did you know they don't call them Socs anymore? Leslie told me they're called Preppies now, apparently it's an East Coast thing."

"I thought you were a Soc, back in junior high."

Her head tilts back and she lets out a soft laugh, "why on earth would you think that?"

 _Because you were stuck up back then, especially when we had to partner in biology._

"Because you were quiet."

"And quiet meant Soc?"

"I guess, I was twelve, thirteen years old. I reckon I had no idea what I was thinking back then."

"It's hard to believe that even made a difference. Now it's so much easier with all of these lines blurring."

I nodded, but those lines weren't blurring, look at Vietnam, look who was getting drafted and who wasn't, those lines were as defined as ever. The difference is that because of a generous scholarship and Darry and Soda's sacrifices, I'm now on the other side.

"I never noticed how short your hair is."

"Really?" I plow my fingers through my hair. The 'long, greasy hair' that got me mugged. "I've had it this way for years."

"I guess what used to be long is now short. Anyways, it's shorter than a lot of boys wear theirs," Cathy says matter of fact. "A few years ago Daddy almost had an aneurysm because M&M wouldn't cut his hair, now so many boys have their hair that length. I do wish M&M would cut it, his face is too thin for long hair to look good on him."

Long hair is in, guys like David Gilmour or the guys in Deep Purple. And once again John Lennon is blazing his own trail-this time by shaving his head.

My hair is darker and I don't put hair grease in it, but it's the same length it was back in high school. It has nothing to do with protest or principle, I just liked it this length.

"Meredith still asks about you, she thinks you look like a movie star."

"Who? Bela Lugosi?"

"No! Not Bela Lugosi, Marlon Brando maybe," she says in a chipper voice.

"Gee…"

"Relax Ponyboy, a young Marlon Brando. I for one am glad we ran into each other Ponyboy. It's not everyday the day gets saved by such a dashing young man," she says with a teasing smile, but I can't help but be sincere.

"You don't need me or anyone else to rescue you."

A pile of books attached to two small legs moves barrels into our conversation from across the room. "Cathy, I'm ready!" I grab for the books before they crash onto the floor.

Cathy's youngest sister. All the Carlson kids are nesting doll versions of each other.

"Hey Jenny," I give her a little wave.

"It's Jennifer." She has her big sister's glare.

Cathy stands up and holds Jennifer's pigtails in her hands, "It's been Jennifer for less than half a day. You remember…"

"Ponyboy. Wait, are you going out with my sister again?" How the hell did she remember us dating in the first place?

"Jennifer Carlson, you know that's none of your business." Cathy has the mom voice down pat.

"Your sister's good friend of mine," then I shift my voice, my eyes and body towards my friend, " _we share the incommunicable past_."

I grab their books and we make our way to the checkout desk. And yeah, she still looks good in yellow.

* * *

 _A/N: S.E. Hinton owns. Bryon Douglas is from TWTTIN._

 _'We share the incommunicable past' is a reference from Willa Cather's My Antonia. In 'Tex' Cathy Carlson quotes that line, so my little shout out. :)_

 _David Gilmour is the vocalist/guitarist for Pink Floyd, McFarlin is the library on the University of Tulsa campus, The Stranger is by Albert Camus (yeah, I probably did go a bit far with Pony the melancholy college student, UGH. sorry. :( ). The excerpt is from Tess of the d'Ubervilles by Thomas Hardy._

 _Professor Brustle was a real life professor at UT and his anti-war play 'No Triumph for David' was performed that year, he was an actor who had a bit part on The Waltons. The Rubiot is a jazz coffee house in Tulsa. The Feminine Mystique is by Betty Friedan. David Harris was an anti-war protester and one-time husband to Joan Baez._

 _M &M/Edwin Carlson is Cathy's brother. In The Visit(Everyone I Know, Everywhere I go) which follows the family in 1978 Edwin is diagnosed with schizophrenia. _

_And yes Cathy is the infamous girl in yellow. ;)_

 _Thank you SO much for reviewing, following, favoriting and reading this story. I am so appreciative of each of you. :)_


	4. Chapter 4

A few years after we broke up Cathy Carlson and I made out. It's strange having sex with your ex-girlfriend, especially since we never did it when we dated. But because this wasn't our first time, even if it was our first time with each other, because we knew each other, because we're friends, I expected it to be familiar, comfortable.

Cathy kept on apologizing for needing to adjust herself from under me and at one point I had to move off the bed because she developed a leg cramp, which she got rid of by pounding her foot hard into my one inch mattress and swearing 'damn it' under her breath. To which some wise guy shouted above a din of what sounded like a small party, 'Another notch for Curtis!'

 _Saying word that have oh so clearly been said_

Which wasn't even true, I was no virgin but compared to most of the guys in my dorm I wasn't exactly what you'd call a player, even when you took into consideration I was a full year younger than most of them. Maybe with another girl I would have played along, but Cathy's different. And maybe this alone should have tipped me off to what a bad idea this was, when with ears red enough to stop traffic, I shake my head, "Cathy, it's not like…"

Cathy, still shaking her foot like a tambourine, only reaches for my shoulder and pulls me towards her and my momentary reluctance vanishes into her soft red lips. Then our mouths open. Part of me wonders where this girl's been hiding all this time. "I always wanted to do this."

 _Life has made her that much bolder now_

Lady Godiva's Operation's trippy psychedelic voices overlap the sounds of heavy machines, heavy partying and our heavier breathing. Despite our initial awkwardness we find our rhythm, and we pull in closer, and I'm kissing her all over, she tells me to fuck her, and as into the moment as I am, there's still a small, useless part of my brain, that thinks, 'wow I don't think I ever heard Cathy say 'fuck' before.'

 _Now come the moment of Great! Great! Decision!_

 _The doctor is making his first incision_

 _The ether tube's leaking says someone who's sloppy._

Our breaths are returning to normal when she looks at me, tilts her head and lets out a sigh, "My God, you're so beautiful." But when she pulls back a damp strand of hair off my forehead, her smile is almost mournful and I feel like I ought to apologize for something, but I'm not sure what or why for. Instead my hands rest behind her neck and I take a good long look at her.

 _Making love to every poor daughter's son_

Her black earth hair, cut short thanks to Evie and Twiggy, accentuates her heart shaped face. Her breasts are extra pale and warm to the touch and I could make out the lines of her bra across her chest and my eyes move downward. She's always been cute, especially when she wears those mini skirts and I don't know if it's my libido and the fact that I just had sex with her on my dorm mattress, but now she's beyond cute. I never fully appreciated just how hot Cathy Carlson really is.

If we were back in high school despite not having much money she would have easily fit in with the Socs like Cherry and Marcia.

Then I remember we're not in high school anymore and Socs and greasers don't exist. We're supposed to be better than that now, more mature; to put childish things away.

"You're…"

 _The brain must have gone away_

"We're so young Ponyboy."

 _Underneath the white light_

Her nipple, taut, rubs against my forearm, "I'll be eighteen in a few months," I remind her. That I haven't felt young for years. That she's a year older doesn't feel like a big deal at all, especially with us both in college. Not when she's in all her naked glory, her body hot and electric against mine.

 _Doctor arrives with knife and baggage_

"And I'll be nineteen," she says sweetly and though Cathy is as mature and put together of a person as I'd ever known in my life, there's an innocence in her voice that's hard to find on the east side.

Before the crack of dawn I sneak her out, I'm supposed to drop her off at her friend Meredith's place, which is where she told her parents she was spending the night.

She gives me a kiss on the cheek that can only be described reluctantly as _sisterly._

* * *

Growing up I knew two Quakers, the man on the oatmeal canister and my mother. And this morning, pillow scarred and sleepy eyed I arrive at our kitchen table and one of them is there, waiting for me. Not the one I wanted to see, but what choice do I have but to lumber to the stove and make myself a bowl?

Darry with his black coffee, Soda's plate empty except for a piece of uneatened buttered, burnt toast. He's smoking a cigarette and hunched over the newspaper. His face shows no change in emotion or expression and only his lips slowly moving tells me he's reading.

It's only when I steady myself and I reach for some bacon that I realize that I'm tilting over. The bacon is completely dried and cool to the touch.

"What time is it anyways?"

"'Bout 9:30," Darry, the last forkful of scrambled eggs at the corner of his mouth answers me. He's chewing when he answers again, "thought you like sleeping in."

I do, but I also like a warm breakfast. I grunt and shrug my shoulders. I'm not exactly what you'd call a morning person. But I go to the range and make myself a bowl of oatmeal.

When I finally finish heating up my breakfast I'm still sort of in a sleepy daze because I bring both the bowl and the oatmeal canister to sit at the table with me.

The small radio that belts out more static than tunes hums in the background. We always have music or the T.V. going on in our house, the fourth Curtis as it were. Right now the fourth Curtis is a local car dealership; their jingle so embedded into my brain that I can make it out over the static buzz and clang of my spoon.

"Anything good?" I pull down Soda's paper, his hair is damp, but not combed and I've forgotten how dark it gets when wet.

"Naw, just good ol' Charlie falling on his ass again trying to kick that damn football." He moves the lighter and pack next to me and I realize it's mine and suddenly I'm jonesing for a smoke to chase after the thick oatmeal coating my throat.

"Poor bastard never learns his lesson." He doesn't look up. I try to make eye contact with Darry, but he too is reading the newspaper.

From these moments I try to construct a normalcy, that it's all okay. We're all home for breakfast, Darry's drinking his coffee, Soda and me are clogging our lungs with cancer. I managed not to pour too much milk in my oatmeal.

Then it ends. In the space it takes Lucy to snatch the football. It ends.

* * *

Tulsa is the buckle of the Bible belt, but in our house, between a Quaker mother and a father with a lax attitude towards just about anything organized, including religion, despite us nominally attending a Methodist church as boys, despite me being cast as the baby Jesus in a Church nativity play, that ol' time religion, as good number of our neighbors would've defined it, passed over our house.

That's not to say our parents weren't spiritual, far from it.

On our fishing trips Dad would tell us about how the Indians thought there were gods and spirits in the trees and rivers. "Didn't do 'em much good did it?" Darry said before joining Soda in wrestling a tree god (Soda was getting the best of Him, till a small branch smite his head); but Dad and I agreed, if we were gods we could think of no better place to be one than in the beautiful wilds of nature.

In his more introspective moods he would call himself a searcher. I liked this, picturing him mounting a horse like a cowboy out of an old Western, bandana catching the drops of sweat falling down his neck, his hand to the brim, on the lookout for something just beyond the horizon.

Dad's people were Biblical. Not just because they were larger than life, semi-mythical creatures with witches, moonshiners, cowboys and Choctaw princesses tangled up in the family tree, but because with the exception of Uncle Pat and occasionally Grandma Curtis, we had about as much chance to see or know any of them as anyone mentioned in the Bible.

Some of Dad's people were certifiable, but least their crazy made for good stories. Least, that's how Soda explained it to me.

If Dad was a rebel when it came to religion, Mom was a radical. She grew up in Kansas, the adopted daughter of German Quakers whose ancestors migrated to Kansas in the years before the Civil War. Abolitionists and radical pacifists they hoped to make Kansas a bit less bloody and whole lot more humane.

My memories of the influence of her Quaker faith on our childhood is 1). The Quaker hymns she played at our piano, which to my ears all sounded the same and about as exciting as the hymns they sang in our Methodist church. 2). The man on the oatmeal can, the world's best known Quaker outside Richard Nixon, whose tight lip smile looked so much like mom's. ( _Knowing how mom felt about Nixon when he ran against Kennedy I'd say it was a small act of mercy that she was taken before she could see Nixon become President)_ and 3). Her trying to teach the Quakers pacifist teachings to her sons.

" _You mean, even if someone punches you, like pow, right in the kisser, you can't punch 'em back?!" Darry throws his hands up. He said the same thing twice before._

" _They practiced what they preached," and mom's patience is as tightly wrapped as her apron string._

" _No offense mom, that's kinda cookoo." I nodded._

" _Darry, when you actually grow up," Mom always knew how to land a blow without even tightening her fist, "you'll understand that it takes a lot more courage to walk away from a fight than it ever does to hit back." She takes the apron off and I see Darry follow her from the kitchen into our living room._

 _'Kay," he crosses his arms, "let's say some crazed maniac killed us, hacked our bodies up, ain't nothing but guts and pulverized brains all over your nice clean walls." Soda and I nod with gleeful relish._

" _These walls ain't very clean gots a bunch of finger prints on 'em." I whisper to Soda. The finger prints are mine._

 _Soda sticks an imaginary knife in his gut and makes a pitiful sound, "I'm dyin' Pony, save me! Save me!"_

" _Hush up Soda, I'm listenin'."_

 _I try to sit still and not call attention to myself, afraid that I'll be sent to my room before the show really began._

" _You're tellin' me you wouldn't want to just claw him? You're tellin' me you could see all that and not wanna shoot him 'tween the eyes?" Darry stands awfully close to her I don't like his tone. Dad isn't going like it either and I look out the window for his truck lights._

 _The space between my eyes hurt. I touch it with my index finger, no longer greasy or wet. I want to stop this, but I'm too little. I'm always too little._

" _Darry," Mom's voice is the eerie control right before all control is lost, "if God forbid something that, I can't even say it, that horrible ever happened to any of you, I wouldn't be able to even get off the ground to make a fist."_

 _The idea of mom lying there helpless struck me as harder to comprehend than even my own death._

 _It feels like someone just knocked the wind out of me I sink further into the couch. Soda stops dying and looks at Darry and Mom._

 _Darry doesn't notice how upset Mom is, or if he does he doesn't care because he keeps on, "that's great Mom, but you know what, if something ever happened to you, I'd kill 'em with my bare hands. Wouldn't show no mercy. You know why Mom?" His voice rises and he's almost shouting, "because I love you."_

 _He doesn't sound very loving to my ears and his bare hands missed their intended target cause now Mom looks like she's been gut punched._

 _Soda runs between them, holding up his palms, "hold it, fellas" and Mom closes her eyes, but there's a small smile on her lips at being deemed one of the 'fellas.'_

 _But Darry pushes Soda away. I shoot up, my fists tight. Soda did nothing to evoke Darry's wrath. Soda looks concerned and then pissed and he's about to ram our oldest brother but Mom catches him, his body squirming in the jail of her arms._

 _Darry's door bangs and then echoes throughout our entire house._

Our parents encouraged us to find our own paths. Darry's faith expanded and contracted with the football season, Soda continued to wrestle both tree gods and sidewalk demons. But me? I still found myself at church, even after my parents passed. But I always preferred to sit next to a window, by the back door, partially to obscure myself from view, but mostly in the hopes that that I'd feel the breeze on my back, and try to convince myself that I could still feel them. To me that's no more far fetched than God being born of a virgin.

So in spite of everything, I still believe.

But with all respect to the author of Galatians, we can't always share each other's burdens. There are some burdens that love simply cannot stretch around to meet. Soda has a son in Vietnam. We don't know if he's alive or dead. _Soda_ doesn't know if his son is alive or dead. What we know is that napalm is being dropped on his country. Our napalm. Our nephew.

And in spite of Darry's intelligence and my imagination, neither of us can fully understand what Soda is going through. We can sympathize, but to be able to climb into his skin and feel his pain, the way he does? We aren't able to do that. And we did everything together. So maybe that's why I shut down, and Darry is left helpless. It felt similar to when I was a kid and had those night terrors, Darry took me to the doctor, but when the nightmares wouldn't stop, when he couldn't fix it, l remember that look of helplessness.

Our parents died in the winter of 1965. The last meal we ate as a family included scrambled eggs and Quaker Oats. After our parents died we began to eat chocolate cake for breakfast and for years none of us guys would even touch oatmeal.

That year, the year our parents were killed, the year Johnny died and Dally was shot to death in front of that store; Quaker Oats got a new advertising slogan, _"nothing is better for thee than me."_

* * *

Darry looks at the oatmeal canister for a good ten seconds.

"Soda."

Darry's eyes are jagged icebergs with little polar bears in them.

Soda jolts up, his head throws back, startled. His eyes are bloodshot.

My eyes dart between them. You're not too little anymore, a voice tells me, you can stop this. But I put my finger between my eyes and I can't even stop this headache.

"I know you'll do whatever the hell you want, so I don't know why the hell I'm even botherin'. But you so much as think about shooting up in this house, I'm throwin' your ass out so hard it won't know what hit it."

"What the fuck?"

" _Shut up_." Darry turns on me with more emotion and force than he did telling our brother to try his best not to OD underneath the cat-shaped wall clock. I wish more than anything I was someplace else. That I was someone else.

"Is that what keeps you up at night D-man?"

"Sodapop." I feel the blood draining from my face.

"No Pone, I gotta know, what keeps my big brother up at night?" He asks in his soft drawl. "Because Darry, you wanna know _who_ keeps me up at night, you wanna fuckin' know?"

Soda rarely mentions his son since he first told us about his existence.

I expect Darry to back down but although his eyes and voice are without emotion, he continues, "when we lost Mom and Dad..." A shiver runs down my chest.

And someone breaks in, "they're dead, they don't give a shit what we're doing." And somehow that voice is mine. Darry looks at me, and his lip move like they're going to say something, but he turns to Soda instead.

Soda almost smiles, and I can't stop it, I can't stop any of this; but as he opens his mouth his expression changes and he sounds like he's almost pleading, and he looks at Darry but then at me. "I wouldn't do smack in mom's house. I wouldn't..."

The screen door needs a good oiling.

"You think he's gonna come back home now?" I shout and I'm pissed off. But Darry doesn't hear me, or doesn't want to, but he's looking at the oatmeal canister and though he mutters a row of swears under his breath there's a sort of confusion in his stare.

Only our Friend smiles back.

* * *

Thanks to almost six years of cancer sticks and one track season of hurling dead weights and spears instead of my body into the wind, by the time I get here I'm out of breath.

Here, being the corner, here being not home or any place I have to think about what happened. Here being where all I need to do is catch my breath.

Keith who goes by Two-Bit and Steve who goes by Steve, and me who at 6'0 and a legal adult still goes by 'kid' slouch into _Arnie's_ hard wood chairs. Two-Bit's cowboy hat worn in part because _'who would suspect a good ol' cowboy of anything untoward.'_ Yeah, he actually said untoward.

 _Arnie'_ s in the afternoon shares only a name with _Arnie's_ during peak business hours. Even in a small city like Tulsa there are enough variations to populate a city twice as big.

There's a guy at the bar, pressed so tightly against the corner half his body appears embedded inside the wall itself, another man in a denim work shirt drinks alone at a booth. The room shrinks, molding around us.

Soda, or least a version of himself that still floats in my mind, would have said that without women the place looks sad and empty. Even Sally isn't here.

There's something almost subterranean about the atmosphere, the low dim lights, the air thick and conspiratorial; silent except for the sound of Two-Bit's bandage knuckles tapping against the table.

Oh yeah, he tried to hustle a guy at pool. Glass half full: tried. Glass half empty: failed. Glass completely empty: Two-Bit's. He's lucky he only ended up with one black eye. Snookered to all hell, he tried to take a swing, missed and slammed his fist into a splintered beam, causing the pool shark to laugh and Two-Bit to escape. Like I said, I think he's lucky.

Darry listened as Two-Bit retold his tale, tossed him raw meat to nurse his eye and mumbled that God really does take care of fools and drunkards.

Two-Bit may be a fool and he may drink too much, but I like the guy.

The sun does its best to slither in through cracks where the shade doesn't pull all the way down. But even the sun is alien, its light entering as beams on an UFO.

Even though I can hear the city bus outside, inside it is a rough scrubbed 19th century saloon on the edge of a frontier town, a place where women and cleanliness are as unwelcomed as sunlight and conversation. But it doesn't just belong to cowboys with serpent grins, this place is a portal, a time machine; a place where any moment Odin in flannel and long dirty blonde hair who _doesn't shoot up in his dead mom's bathroom_ will saunter in.

"You okay Ponyboy?"

"Yeah. Just chilly." I've become a worse liar with age. The defensive tone doesn't help. Also doesn't help: it's the middle of summer in Tulsa, in the middle of the afternoon and we're in a building with one lone fan.

I'm reading more than I even did when I was thirteen and that doctor put me on that football and Faulkner diet. But I can't lie, or maybe I'm just tired.

Two-Bit though is a good pal, though adroit at telling whoppers himself, he pretends to believe my piss poor explanation. And if there's a look of sympathy on his sweat lined face in my mind I swat it away. I'm not the one in need of it.

The lack of patrons didn't stop me from taking a nervous sweep of the place when we first arrived.

"Just lookin' for this girl." Or chick, maybe I called Lauralee a chick. I'm Pony and she's a chick. And we'll run off and join a three ring circus. And outside, chained a chain link fence is a scrappy Chihuahua named _Killer_ gnawing down on the Kudu's bone.

 _Real smooth sounding there Curtis._ I sounded like J.D. number five in one of those hokey films I used to watch at the Nightly Double. One of those films that you couldn't even justify liking because they have a lot of girls in bikinis and you're thirteen years old as horny as fuck but also half scared of any female that so much as looks in your direction.

Internally I shake my head, and if I did run into again? So what? I doubt she'd recognize me and if she did, so what? What would I say, 'yeah, I'm the brother of that asshole?'

Two-Bit makes a smartass comment.

"Too bad it ain't your mouth that got busted," is my clever retort.

"Shoot, you think that woulda put the brakes on me?" He tips the corner of his hat towards me.

Steve flicks cold ashes in my direction, cause I guess he's betting on me not beating to death a new father. "Didn't think you was the type to be two-timin' your girl, kid" his eyebrows raise but without judgment or care.

"But," Two-Bit drawls, "we didn't think you _weren't_ the type either."

"I ain't." I want to tell them to shut the fuck up. That Two-Bit, with his bottle blonde still counts of the month club, especially has no room for comments.

But I just narrow my eyes, as if that's going to make a difference. I'm not the type to step out on my girlfriend, but I guess if things were going better between Tracey and me I wouldn't have felt so defensive. I hadn't thought of another girl, but postcards and a few dream aside, I haven't thought about my own girlfriend since Tracey's father arrived to pick her up on the last day of school.

The guilt is on the edge of feeling nothing at all. Maybe guilt had a tipping point. Or maybe I just didn't give a shit. And a few months ago I was worried about us having to get married.

They keep calling me kid. _Kid: Killer the demented smiling Chihuahua's trusty side kick._ Truth be told, I don't mind it.

Years ago it would have drove me nuts, but now with everything and everyone changing there is something nice about being Darry and Soda's kid brother. All those years ago, wanting Darry to stop treating me like a little kid, a part of me just wants to pack up my old copy of _Peter Pan_ and paint by numbers and head out the way I did when I was seven or eight. But I wouldn't just stop in my backyard, no, or even the rolling countryside that once captured so much of my imagination. No, I'd go to the woods, where I can't be found.

"Your brothers tell you 'bout Tim?"

Steve's voice pulls me out of the woods and my ass.

"No." I say with suspicion. Steve's eyes squint from the blades of sun and being up all night with Levi, says nothing.

Darry ain't tell me shit." My voice is hard edged, but that only serves to make me sound more, not less petulant and childish. As always, my toughness is predicated on keeping my mouth shut.

The Shepards: Tim, Curly and Angela are something else. Even Angela who hasn't been a Shepard by name since 1967 still possesses that intrinsic quality that sets the Shepards apart. The midnight blue eyes cut out from their blue-black hair and re-stitched into pale skin. The pulling teeth without anesthesia laugh, the Kamikaze loyalty to each other - and their egos. They weren't exactly what I'd call charming, least not in a conventional sense, but they possessed the skills, voodoo or maybe just blind luck(less)ness to survive anything.

And I respected that.

"He's in the slammer."

Also the ability to transform local jails into Best Westerns.

"Armed robbery," Steve adds coolly as an expert poker player placing a bluff, "the Texaco station on 21st."

"What the hell? Why?" I wasn't expecting there to be a why, because outside of books there usually isn't a reason why, just a long list of things that happen without rhyme or reason.

But Steve shifts in his seat, genuine surprise in his voice and on his face, "I take it you got no idea about Curly?"

The Pepsi is still sliding down my throat when my brain sprints up to Steve's words. A block of ice body slams into my stomach. It jolts and a mangy polar bear covered in Pepsi and oatmeal claws its way up my throat and onto the back edge of my tongue.

Fuck. My homey woods have grown into triple canopy jungles. He was supposed to come home at the end of August. We were supposed to get stoned. Then I would go back to school and Curly would go back to being Curly. We had plans.

"No Ponyboy, it's nothing like that." Two-Bit says with concern and kindness. Like I said, he's a good guy.

On the edge of our conversation, Steve mutters, "Jesus, you didn't think he…"

My heart is still beating like crazy. "What the fuck was I…"

"He's fine Ponyboy," Two-Bit tells me. "Well, not fine, but…" and I guess my eyes are wide, "he ain't injured or nothing," Two-Bit quickly adds, casually wiping a bead of sweat off his brow.

He's okay. _You and your stupid imagination._ There's another voice even deeper, _and if he's dead, there's nothing you can do about it._ _You've seen enough death already, what's one more. A coldness permafrost my mind. Ain't like Curly is close to you the way Johnny was. You survived the deaths of your parents, your friends, what's one more?_

I take a deep breath, cuss Steve under that breath for scaring the shit out of me, cuss my wild imagination even more and work to steady my heartbeat. I would have cussed the world for taking so much from me, if I'd thought it would make a difference. If I hadn't done it before and woken up with nothing changed.

"What's goin' on with Shepard?" I try to act casual, not that I'm fooling anyone. Least of all myself. But the polar bears are hibernating; my heartbeat is now 'normal eighteen year old' not 'eighteen year old ready to have a heart attack.' Well, normal eighteen year old who's got some polar bears hibernating in his guts.

"It's a doozy and really you sure you don't want some beer?" Two-Bit waves a bottle front of me.

I'm too drained from the emotional swing of Curly's lightning flash burial and resurrection to care that both Two-Bit and Steve and hell probably Darry and even Soda, knew what was going on before I did. I might as well have spent the last year on Mars and not just down the road. I don't need to escape into the woods to find my hiding spot; my room does the job just fine.

"Dammit Two-Bit, just tell me." I give his hand a hard shove out of my face. His normally jovial expression grows dark, "hey watch it kid," before coming back to himself.

"Well Ponyboy…" Two-Bit leans back into his seat and takes a long drawn out swig. I roll my eyes, Two-Bit can never tell a story straight, they mutate into a half dozen unrelated tales. Most of them pretty dirty and I'll admit pretty damn funny but all I want now are the facts.

I feel nothing but gratitude when Steve decides to point the gun and put us all out of our misery. "He's reenlisting."

The polar bear awakens from his hibernation. A piece of ice splinters inside my stomach.

"What?" Is the sound of the polar bear fur leaving my mouth.

No. No. No. This was Curly Shepard we're talking about. Dumbass Curly Shepard. Curly Shepard who looked more terrified the night he received his draft notice than he ever did ghost face and screaming down that telephone pole.

"He's gonna get himself killed." I try to swallow those words back up as if I have the power to control his destiny. As if I have the power to control anything. As if in some magical world I did have one wish I wouldn't have used it all for Soda.

No one has a response, but Two-Bit sighs the way he does when he's about to say something both truthful and painful; "guess he's finally finding a way out of his brother's shadow." _And what into a fucking grave?_

Jesus Christ, Curly!

Steve gives me a quick nod, knowing exactly what I'm thinking. _I know kid._

Of course Steve knows, he's Soda's best friend.

* * *

I walk home still in a stupor over Curly, partially because he's my pal and mostly because I don't want to think about Soda, and look up at the utility poles, the wires, the height, the thousand volts of death. _Thought cause you beat death once Curly, you try again?_

There is of course no answer, only a crick in my neck and the sting of the sun in my eyes. I close them and still see the glow of the burning sun trapped inside.

Maybe I'll write something, Vietnam, the new Neverland where the lost boys go and sometimes come back. Or not.

I pass by the campus and though school is closed for the summer except for international students and programs like teaching and engineering, there's a sign advertising an anti-war sit-in scheduled for next week. Back in high school, anti-war protests were rare, now straight laced students like Cathy Carlson were marching against the war.

In my neighborhood hippies are a slur. My street, once close knit, with those porches and front stoops I knew as well as my own skin, we shared the same scrapes and bruises, now only feels like cement and wooden nooses strangling around my neck.

The front door is locked, another change since '65.

Darry is cleaning, or beating up the furniture; lifting the cushions, sweeping the crumbs and dust into a wastepaper bag before pounding the cushion back into place. If cleanliness is next to godliness then Darry's faith could move mountains.

"What happened?" The fear on his face is palpable.

"Curly," I say quickly.

"Fuck," but there's also a relief there.

"Nah, he's fine, he just decided he liked the Nam so much he's goin' back for another tour."

He shakes his head.

"Yeah, that ain't the half of it, Tim decided to rob a gas station so he's in the hole and with all his priors it doesn't look good for him." Angela, alone with her baby, when her brothers are playing a real life version of cops and robbers. I feel this anger towards Tim and Curly burn up inside of me.

Angela's tough, but just because we can survive anything doesn't mean we should have to.

I'm still thinking of Angela Jones, but always Shepard, but looking at Darry. He's been shouldering the full weight of Soda's addiction almost entirely on his own. He's called me and I've come home a few times, but mostly he's giving me the freedom to live the life he was never given.

A life I've been able to live because of all he's given up for me.

But this life I'm living isn't true either, I'm not just a college kid, I can't hide in my books, in my woods; not when the two people I love more than anything are suffering so much. Not when Darry Curtis who has never given up on anything or anyone is on the edge of giving up on Soda.

Put those childish things away.

He's still cleaning, smashing dust and the thick, lemony scent of furniture polish fills the air. And I remember how spic and span he got our house during those first few visits from the State, I had thought it was because he was nervous, wanted to make a good impression. Now I realize he was furious.

I know Darry doesn't want my sympathy or apology, so I try to think like him, what would he do?

"Darry!" I shout and back home, living with The Voice himself; I've forgotten how deep my own voice has become over the past few years. When he looks up at me all I say is, "we gotta make a plan. We're gonna confront Soda."

"You mean that Ponyboy? Cause I'm on my last ounce of patience with him, and, I'm sure as hell not doing this by myself." His voice grows softer, "we can't just tell him we love him, cause I know we do. But we're past that point." I swallow hard but nod all the same, but still for emphasis he adds, "I'm past that fuckin' point." And lets out a low laugh that would be perfect for a horror film.

"Nah, you seem like the picture of sanity and good cheer," and he actually snorts a chuckle. "We'll figure something out," I try to assure us both, but once again I look to Darry to take the lead. "We have to."

We try to convince ourselves that we know what we're doing and my imagination, as crazed as it is, doesn't quite manage to stretch that far.

"The Carlsons, they went through something similar with Cathy's brother, right?"

I'm floored, that Darry actually remembered Cathy even has a brother or that he got himself in trouble. He couldn't even remember where Tracey was from. Course I could barely remember my own girlfriend existed so I wasn't exactly one to talk.

I shrug, M&M, and I like the kid, was a little bit off, but it was nothing like Soda. Even in his struggles Soda was one of a kind.

"You like her?"

I'm expecting to be shut down in no time but he shrugs and answers sensibly as ever, "don't really know her that well." Which is bullshit, because if Darry remembered about Cathy's brother he remembers Cathy and if he remembers Cathy it's because he likes Cathy.

And hell, maybe the fumes are getting to me, because I tell him, "I think y'all would be good together," and I mean it, Cathy is responsible but isn't opposed to fun and she helped her parents take care of her younger siblings for years. "Think you guys have a lot in common, actually."

He chortles, but gives me a punch on the arm, "playing matchmaker?"

"Yeah, between games of tiddlywinks, best deals in town."

He laughs but his next question catches me off guard and he asks with all sincerity, "it won't be weird for you?"

 _Long as you don't draw me a picture._

"It was a lifetime ago." And my voice is honest, but weary.

* * *

"Here's our plan, what do you think?" Darry is being generous when he called it 'our' plan because the work was all his. He presses the yellow legal pad in my hand, bulleted in his sharp, angled script, giving me a grin that would make _Killer_ blush. He's gaining back control.

We would have our BBQ (don't call it the Last Supper, don't call it the Last Supper) and then once everyone else went home, with Soda stuffed with bacon burgers and Mrs. Carlson's award winning potato salad the two of us would confront him. No more pussy footing around. No more loud (but empty) threats. More importantly the two of us would be united and if there's one person I trusted, one person I could always depend on, it was Darry.

Darry had a plan for every possible scenario that could possibly go down. He may have hated Dad's gambling but reading through his plans of actions, each one with a contingency plan, its own ace in the shoe so to speak. He too played for keeps.

My creative writing professor would love him; he gets right to the point. He's creative too. He gives each subsection titles as the 'fuck everything to shit' plan. This made the bold assumption that things weren't already, 'fucked up to shit.' Thing is, he's not trying to be funny; he's at his breaking point. We all are. But we all break in different ways and Darry's form of brokenness was being tempered by a relish. He wanted to confront Soda. He loved fights and his brother too much to stand back and do nothing.

While I wasn't crazy about confrontations, I loved my brother and I would do anything to help him.

"Got anything you think we should add?"

I can't think of anything, he had come up with plans to deal with any sort of mood Soda was in. Darry had almost 22 years of history to work with and he had been around Soda much more than I had in the past year. I shake my head no.

This is really happening. And it needs to happen. But I think of the _Jesus Prayer_. Most of all I think of Soda. I think what Soda would do if it was either me or Darry in his position. I think of my brother who at sixteen, _sixteen,_ carried the emotional weight of three grieving boys on his shoulders; who gave his paycheck each week to Darry to keep the lights on. I think of how easily he forgave, forgives me and Darry for all our mistakes.

I'm afraid. That if given the choice between us, the three of us, and a needle he'll choose drugs. My headache is returning and I try to remember how much Aspirin is left in the bottle.

And hell, I know this needs to be done, I know it's the right thing, the only thing, that it's for Soda's own good. But the idea of all of Soda's wrong doings listed out there in cold ink, as true as they are, they aren't the whole story, and even though I've been gone for so long, I know that.

My head is still halfway shaking into a no, when it shakes yes, and as much to myself as to Darry, "Yeah, we'll lay down the law. And then we'll show him mercy."

* * *

 _A/N: Thank you. I'm still trying to get my bearings with this story, with writing in 1st person, and especially Ponyboy Curtis in first person, and as some of you know, I really get nervous writing the Curtis brothers._

 _S.E. Hinton owns. Lady Godiva's Operation is by Velvet Underground. There are some references to things from previous chapters, like the Jesus Prayer and I apologize for the long gap between updates._


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